


From Such Darkness We'll Hold Pretty True

by Nori



Series: In The Next Life We'll Be Good [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Destiny, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Out, Destiny (video game) - Freeform, Emotional Constipation, Humor, Insecurity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Strangers to Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-11-12 07:03:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11156742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nori/pseuds/Nori
Summary: Steve is resurrected 500 years into the future. Humanity is on the brink of extinction, hostile aliens are clawing at the door, and the only thing standing in the way are Guardians. Figuring out how, exactly, to be a Guardian doesn't come easily for Steve, no matter how much he wants to protect the innocent. Luckily for him, he has friends who're more than willing to show him the way.---Breaking your hand doesn’t actually help in any way,” a voice says from behind him. Steve twists at the waist, less surprised than he probably ought to be.“Hey,” Steve says, feeling a smile breaking over his face. “You’re all about clandestine meetings, huh?”“Maybe I wanted to be a spy in my last life,” the scout replies breezily, drifting like a shadow to stand adjacent to Steve.





	1. A Titan’s Guide to Waking Up On Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SiriusGrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiriusGrey/gifts).



> Beta'd by the magnificent and wonderful [SiriusGrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiriusGrey/profile)
> 
> Title from "Kitsune" by Gunship.
> 
> **Glossary**
> 
> _Guardian_ : A reanimated corpse-turned-specialized soldier tasked with the defense of the last city on Earth and exploration of the lost remnants of humanity's Golden Age throughout the solar system.  
>  _Titan_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on strength and power.  
>  _Hunter_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on speed and finesse.  
>  _Warlock_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on... "space magic."  
>  _Traveler_ : A mysterious, city-sized sphere hovering close to Earth's surface which grants superhuman abilities to Guardians.  
>  _Ghost_ : A levitating artificial intelligence used by Guardians.  
>  _HUD_ : "Heads Up Display"  
>  _Fireteam_ : A small squad composed of 2 to 6 Guardians.  
>  _Cosmodrome_ : A shipyard located in Old Russia that once served as a vital link to space.

_"What does it mean to be a Titan? As a Titan, you are a part of the City - in a way no Warlock or Hunter could understand. The dream of the City rests upon our shoulders."_  
—Commander Zavala

* * *

“Hey, hi,” a voice exclaims. Steve’s head whips around, coming face to face with a palm sized floating _thing_. It’s a bit like two four-sided stars mashed back to back, the metal points rotating freely around a central core of dazzling light. Steve stares at it, eyes near to bugging out of his head, and gasps for breath. “So, you’ve been dead for a long time,” the thing continues. “There are a lot of things we should talk about, but most important right now is getting out of here.”

“What?” Steve croaks. It’s the first word he’s spoken since he’d forced broken apologies through his cracked, bloody lips. He can’t stop shaking. 

“Okay, quick version,” the thing says. “I’m a Ghost. I’m your Ghost. I’ve been looking for you and now that I’ve found you, I need to take you somewhere.”

Steve pants for breath. Maybe he didn’t die. Maybe this is some fantasy his dying mind has crafted to free him from the agony of lying battered and beaten in filth. 

“I’m… dead,” Steve whispers. He lifts his hands, staring at the strange black gloves on his fingers. 

“No,” the thing, the Ghost, says. “You _were_ dead. Now you’re not.”

Steve stares at it bobbing in front of his face. His throat grows tight and his eyes sting. His vision goes blurry. He sucks in a jerky breath. 

“What,” Steve chokes out. “What… am I?”

“You’re a Titan,” the Ghost replies matter of factly, like that means anything to Steve. “You’re also in serious trouble if you don’t get it together and move.”

“What?” Steve sobs softly. He feels like he can barely remember her, but he wishes his mother were here. 

“I will explain everything to you, I promise,” the Ghost says, floating right into Steve’s face. “But I need you to run now.”

There’s a flash of light accompanied by a gentle swish of sound, and the Ghost disappears. Steve whirls. 

“Hey!” he calls, desperate and terrified. 

“I’m still here,” the Ghost’s voice soothes, coming from nowhere but seemingly from everywhere. “Do you see that big building over there?”

A white kite appears in his vision, overlaid on a skyscraper bigger than any Steve has ever seen. He blinks rapidly, lifts his hands to rub at his eyes. Instead, his knuckles clack against something solid. A helmet. Steve pats at the helmet frantically, wondering why he couldn’t tell it was there before. Why is his vision not hindered by the heavy, smooth edges of it?

“Please!” the Ghost barks, sounding genuinely nervous. “I understand there’s a lot for you take in, but I need you to move.”

Gulping around the tears settled thickly in his throat, Steve starts running. He runs across the dry, cracked earth, wondering at the feel of it, at his lungs filling and emptying easily. He’d never been able to run like this before. A tendril of joy creeps through the encompassing terror as he leaps over cracked, toppled tombstones and scrambles over the fence enclosing the graveyard. 

He stumbles to a halt on the other side, staring wide-eyed. He remembers cars, but not like this. They’re sleek and endless, stacked bumper to bumper on the hard, black roadways. The buildings loom everywhere cars aren’t, but they’re rotting away, whole sides completely missing. 

“Keep going,” the Ghost urges and Steve staggers onward. He has to climb up on top of the cars, jumping from one to the next, but the building the Ghost is guiding him towards keeps getting closer. 

As he runs, his lungs keep expanding, air keeps rushing in and out of his throat. His heart thuds in his chest, steady despite everything. His limbs feel so light, like he might be able to fly if he pushed off and never looked back down. He couldn’t run before, before he _died_ , but he doesn’t think anyone ever felt as light as this. 

The building the Ghost leads him to is decrepit, trying to collapse under its own weight. The double doors are bent, the glass paneling long knocked out and shattered on the ground. Steve steps through and into the lobby. There’s a reception desk, oddly untouched by time, and a sign overhead proudly announcing the addition of the early aircraft exhibit. 

“Where am I going?” Steve asks, feeling the sick churn of fear catch up with him again. 

“Up,” the Ghost says, placing another white kite marker, on a stairwell this time. Steve starts climbing. “We need to find a ship that can actually fly.”

“Why?” Steve asks, barely winded despite the running and barreling up stairs. “Where am I going?”

“We are in contested territory,” the Ghost says. “If we don’t get out of here soon, we’re going to get caught up in the middle of a serious firefight.”

“Okay,” Steve huffs, still hurtling up and up. “Who’s fighting?”

“There are a few different Fallen factions here,” the Ghost supplies after a moment. “But this whole area is unprotected. I don’t know what else might be lingering here.”

“That means nothing to me,” Steve gasps, swallowing back the wild panic souring the back of his tongue. 

“Don’t worry about it,” the Ghost says. “We need to get a ship and get to Russia as soon as possible.”

“Russia? Where the hell is that?” 

“Oh right,” the Ghost says. “I forgot you’re from that long ago.”

Steve grunts in displeasure, banging through a set of closed doors. Momentarily, he’s taken aback by the power he’s exuding, the ease with which they had crumpled before him. 

“Russia was called the Soviet Union when you were alive before,” the Ghost says helpfully. 

“The Soviet Union?” Steve yelps. “Why are we going there?”

“I’ll tell you when we get out of here,” the Ghost says. “This is our floor.”

Steve shoulders through another door and out onto a wide open floor. There are displays, cordoned off by rope or metal bars. Suspended from the ceiling are an array of planes, streamlined and lacking propellers. Steve gapes up at them. 

“All right, let me see,” the Ghost says, materializing in front of Steve with a flash of light and a whoosh. It flies with purpose amongst the planes, shining a wide beam of light at each before moving on. It finally stops at one, dark metal and chipped red paint. Steve walks over slowly, swallowing around the terror still pulling in his chest. 

“What are you doing?”

“I need to get this thing flying,” the Ghost says. “Wait here. I’ll transmat you when we’re ready to go.”

“What does that mean?” Steve asks, but he gets no reply. The Ghost has disappeared. Steve walks slowly through the room, counting steadily as he breathes to keep his lungs working. This must be a fever dream, or his brain’s last desperate attempt at continued life. He meanders to the glass wall looking down over the packed roads and brushes his fingers over the thick grime. 

He’s gazing down, marveling at all the vehicles, the colors and shapes he’d never have imagined, when he catches movement from the corner of his eye. He turns to look, but all he sees are more dead cars. He turns his head but keeps his eyes on the ground outside.

“Hey,” he calls over his shoulder. “Hey Ghost. There’s something moving out there.”

There’s a rush of sound, and a beam of light exits the stationary craft, forming a ball around which the almost familiar shell materializes. The Ghost floats toward him, fretting quietly all the way. It tips up over his shoulder and peers down through the glass. The top point of the shell shifts down, not unlike a person’s brow might lower over a squint. 

“Oh, oh no,” the Ghost babbles. “We need to hurry. Get away from the window.”

The little thing zips through the air, disappearing inside the plane again, and Steve takes its advice. He takes three steps directly backwards and hustles over to the Ghost’s ship. He chews on his bottom lip and wrings his gloved fingers, terrified and overwhelmed. Every little sound - wind whistling between tall buildings, the metal frame of the skyscraper groaning, a constant but faint dripping - makes his heart thud faster. He has no idea why he’s afraid. It can’t have been more than an hour ago that he was dead. 

The Ghost appears directly in front of him and Steve jerks back violently. 

“They’re making their way up right now. I’m going to transmat you to the ship. It’s not going to break atmo, but it should make it over the ocean,” the Ghost gibbers. 

“I don’t know what any of that means,” Steve means to say, but he’s barely opened his mouth when the Ghost directs a beam of light at him. Steve feels a peculiar tickle deep in his gut, followed by the sound of the Ghost disappearing in its flash of light. For a moment, Steve’s world goes startlingly dark, and then he’s sitting in a tiny enclosure. Panels of lights flicker to life. 

“How did I-?” he thinks aloud, confused but tentatively intrigued. 

“Hold on,” the Ghost snaps, and the plane (and it must be the plane Steve’s sitting in now) lurches violently. The nose tilts down abruptly and there’s a loud roar, like the fire that time the drugstore around the corner had gone up in flames. The craft shudders, jerks, and jolts before starting forward. They must fly straight through the glass wall, because soon the ship is ascending, pushing Steve back into his seat. 

“Do I have to wear this?” Steve asks, pointing at his helmet. The Ghost appears just off to his right.

“No, you can take it off now,” it says. Steve fumbles at his neck uselessly and the Ghost laughs. An actual, bubbling laugh. His hands fall away from his helmet.

“What are you?” Steve asks. 

“A Ghost,” it replies plainly. 

“Yeah,” Steve rolls his eyes. “What does that even mean?”

“I’m… an artificial intelligence created for the purpose of assisting you,” it says after a moment. 

“Why me?” Steve asks, fingers alighting on his own chest with frustrated bewilderment.

“Because I chose you,” his Ghost says. “You’re my Guardian.”

Steve shakes his head hard, hoping to dislodge this wild dream from his brain. When it doesn’t work, he sighs.

“How do I get this helmet off?”

“There’s a clasp along your jaw,” the Ghost says, and continues to make little encouraging clucks while Steve’s fingers grapple with his helmet. When he finally gets it, there’s a little hiss of air, and the helmet loosens abruptly. Steve pulls it off, sucks in a huge breath, and turns it around to stare at the front. The visor looks like solid metal, a faintly angular dome with a few rivets and deeply carved lines.

“I can take that for you,” his Ghost says, and Steve hesitantly holds the helmet out to it. The Ghost focuses a beam of light on it and the familiar whoosh sounds. In his hands, the helmet breaks down into tiny packets of light and disappears from view. The Ghost bounces in the air once and says, “I’ll give it back to you when you need it.”

“Where did it go?”

“Inventory,” the Ghost tells him. “Space is limited, but I’ll keep track of as much of your equipment as I can.”

Steve swallows, feeling strangely distant where he’d been so achingly present before, and nods. He scans the interior of the plane. It’s dark, with panels of red lights blinking regularly and a shaft from the floor to just above his knees. It shivers, untouched as they fly. There’s no window to the outside, Steve recalls, yet there’s a screen straight before him with a view of the blue sky and white clouds nonetheless.

“What is this?” he asks, gesturing forward. “It’s not a window but I can still see.”

“Digital image projected against a flat surface,” his Ghost supplies. “It was discovered pretty quickly that humans don’t like when they can’t see out.”

“Di-digital?” Steve stutters. He’s only ever heard that word a handful of times, and always in reference to fingers. The Ghost swerves in the air, as if to look at him.

“Oh. _Oh_ , I really need to remember how much you’ve missed.”

“Okay, how long was I dead?” There’s a fresh wave of hysteria washing over him, but he forces it down. Whatever is happening to him, panic isn’t likely to help.

“Oh, 600 years?” the Ghost guesses, sounding decidedly nonchalant. The thing would probably shrug if it had shoulders.

“Six…” Steve gasps. “It’s the 2500s?”

The hard points of the Ghost’s star-shaped outer body detach from the light core and spin slowly around the central point.

“Would you believe we don’t exactly know?” the Ghost chuckles, obviously trying for levity. “We lost a lot of information when the Darkness arrived and until we can dig up the old archives, we’re kinda flying blind.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve whispers, and even though he’s apparently recently risen from the dead several hundred years in the future, he still feels compelled to cross himself. He sends a silent prayer to his mama, rest her soul, to forgive him just this once for taking the Lord’s name in vain.

“Right,” the Ghost says slowly. “I guess I should tell you about the Traveler.”

“The Traveler?” Steve repeats slowly. The Ghost bobs, like a nod, and the ship shudders around them.

“There,” the Ghost says, tipping toward the view screen obligingly. “Have a look for yourself.”

Steve turns to the screen and immediately rubs at his eyes, pushing forward in his seat for a closer view. Off in the distance, hanging just above the planet’s surface, is a massive white sphere. The clouds, which would only obscure the top curve of it, give it a wide berth, forming a near perfect circle of clear sky around it. The globe’s white skin has precise, orderly curves pressed into it, probably forming a pattern of some sort, except nearly half of it is broken and crumbled away.

Like most of the city Steve had raced through upon reawakening in this bizarre dream, the Traveler is decrepit. The smooth white shell is cracked open, revealing the dark bands of metal which must make up the inner framework.

“What,” Steve asks, awed, “is it?”

The pyramids that create the points of the Ghost’s shell lift up and twirl. Steve’s beginning to think their slow spin has meaning, like body language. Perhaps uncertainty? Or thoughtfulness? He promises himself to pay closer attention to the Ghost’s behavior.

“The Traveler made me,” the Ghost says after a moment. It sounds at least as awed as Steve had, and deeply reverent as well. “It lifted humanity into the Golden Age, sharing its knowledge and technology. Humanity spread throughout the solar system, colonizing Venus and Mars. Human lifespan tripled. For a time, there was peace and prosperity.”

Steve watches the Ghost quietly reciting facts, speaking of the great orb as if it were some benevolent deity. He’s filled with wonder at the very idea of space travel and humans living on new planets, but he’s too suspicious to let himself enjoy it. The Ghost is speaking in the past tense, and nothing that sounds that amazing can be completely true.

“But?” Steve prompts, voice hard. The Ghost’s eight points shiver, and it swings the bright blue light that must make up its face away from the projected image of the Traveler.

“But,” it sighs, “the Traveler had enemies. An ancient enemy we call the Darkness. It caused the Collapse, a cataclysmic event that nearly destroyed humanity.”

“Nearly,” Steve emphasizes, still unwilling to trust what he’s hearing. Why would any entity like the Traveler bring such fortune to humans freely? What price had humanity unwittingly agreed to?

“Yes, nearly,” the Ghost says, bouncing in place. “The Traveler sacrificed itself to save humanity and created us Ghosts just before it fell dormant.”

Steve’s eyes settle on the image of the white orb. It spans nearly the entire height of the view screen now. The decaying remnants of its shell and the deathly stillness of it are magnified. He’s not entirely convinced “dormant” is the right word.

“Okay,” Steve agrees, ignoring the complete absurdity of it all. “Okay, so the Traveler is asleep. What… does any of that _mean_?”

“The Darkness brings with it armies of creatures that would see humanity and the last of the Traveler’s Light extinguished. _That_ is what you and I are here for.”

“Wait,” Steve says, pressing himself back into his seat and holding up his hands. “Wait, _I’m_ going to fight? Like… Like a soldier?”

His father had been a soldier, before he’d died. Steve had always wanted, deep down, to live up to his father’s name, but his sickly, weak body would never have stood against the trials of war. But this body, with its broad shoulders and lungs that don’t seize, could probably fit the bill.

“No, no,” the Ghost laughs, swooping close to Steve’s face. “Not a soldier. A Guardian.”

“What’s the difference?” Steve asks, rolling his eyes.

“Soldiers fight wars,” the Ghost says, contradicting itself in Steve’s opinion. “Guardians are saving the entire solar system from extinction.”

“I’m pretty sure soldiers probably feel that way when they’re fighting their wars,” Steve points out defensively. He’d never been a soldier, but they deserved respect for their sacrifices.

“Maybe,” the Ghost agrees easily. “We’re almost in Russia now. Are you ready?”

“Ready?” Steve asks, eyes flicking from the Ghost to the view screen and back again. “What should I be ready for?”

“To meet the others,” the Ghost chirps. The ship swoops, descending sharply and Steve white-knuckles the edges of his seat. “Oh, you should probably have this back. You want to make a good first impression right?”

Steve startles as his helmet appears before him, suspended in the air for just a moment before it topples into his lap. He scrambles to catch it before it rolls to the floor, tumbling out of the seat in his haste. He tucks himself into a ball on his knees, curled around the helmet and gritting his teeth against the plunging of the ship. The metal walls rattle and Steve squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself to yank his helmet on. He fumbles with the clasp and collapses onto all fours when he finally gets it, panting from the stress.

The steep angle of the ship vanishes suddenly, as its nose lurches up and they shed all the speed of their descent.

“Sorry, I’ve always wanted to do that,” his Ghost gloats. “Next time I’ll warn you.”

“Shitting fuck,” Steve gasps, ignoring the swoop of nerves accompanying the act of cursing. He very much doubts his mother would care now, all things considered. He clears his throat and pushes himself up onto his knees. “Where are we?”

“We’re just outside the Titan Order’s current base. I could transmat you to the planet now, but I thought you might want to compose yourself first.”

“Great,” Steve sighs. As if meeting people hadn’t been hard for him the first time around. Now he’s got to make a good first impression with a bunch of warriors who are definitely going to notice how terrified and pathetic he is. He wraps his arms around his middle, wishing once again that his mother were here to hold him.

“What am I supposed to do, Ma?” he whispers. His Ghost ducks down, points around its face pulling in tightly. Concern, Steve thinks. He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. He clenches his jaw and squares his shoulders like he used to when he was a sickly runt preparing to meet his maker. “Right, I’m ready.”

“You’ll be great,” his Ghost reassures him. “I’ll be with you the whole way.”

Steve nods, and the same tingle from before cuts through his gut. His world goes dark briefly, and he finds himself dropping down a couple inches to the cold, frosted ground. He lifts his head, scanning the area. There are slapdash shacks everywhere, occasionally interrupted by the frame of a real building, if only partially constructed. The ground is worn to dirt in places, where many feet have passed through. Fires dot the twilit area, surrounded by small huddles of people, all gathered in close. The Traveler looms overhead, an eerie glow in the fading daylight, still miles from where Steve stands.

“Looks like we got ourselves a new one,” a deep, booming voice cuts through the air and Steve turns toward it. A bear of a man with a thick moustache and a cigar chomped between his teeth is striding toward him, mouth twisted in a half smile. He’s wearing heavy, hard plate armor not unlike Steve’s, although his is elaborately designed and brightly colored. He marches right up to Steve and claps him on the shoulder. “Well son, what’s your name?”

“Uh, Steve,” he answers, wondering what to do with his hands. He settles for rubbing them on his hips, but it feels ridiculous what with the thick gauntlets. 

“Steve!” the man announces, smacking Steve’s shoulder again. “I’m Dugan--”

“But call him Dum Dum!” a woman with a prim English accent hollers from the nearest firepit. Dugan tosses his head back and laughs jovially and Steve stands awkwardly beside him.

“Uh,” Steve flounders, grasping at the manners his mother had beaten into him over 18 too-short years, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Dugan barks another laugh, tossing his arm over Steve’s shoulders and pulling him in tight. “The pleasure’s all mine, son. Now, let me show you around.”

He starts off with purpose, shoving Steve along by the shoulders. They pass through wide aisles where the ground is frozen in odd honeycombs and grass pokes up through thin blankets of snow. Dugan waves greetings to nearly everyone they pass, exchanging only a few words. Everyone here, Steve notes, is dressed in similar heavy armor.

“So, uh,” Steve coughs, embarrassed by his complete ignorance, “what is this place?”

“Alright, first of all,” Dugan says, tapping his knuckles against the crown of the Steve’s helmet, “take this thing off.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” Steve mumbles, scrabbling at the latch and yanking the helmet from his head. It immediately begins to dissolve into light, and Steve lets go like he’s been burnt. He turns huge eyes on Dugan, and realizes suddenly that he’s taller than his impromptu guide.

“Christ, you’re just a kid,” Dugan grumbles, rubbing his free hand along his jaw. “What the hell was your Ghost thinking?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t really,” Steve cuts off, feeling his throat grow tight and his eyes start to sting. He swallows thickly, blinking fast to keep his eyes from welling up. Christ, he can’t show up here and start crying like a fucking baby.

“Hey, hey,” Dugan soothes, pushing Steve off the trail and into a quiet space between two metal-sided sheds. “It’s alright, Steve. Coming back from the dead is an emotional time for everyone. Just take a few deep breaths.”

Steve gasps for breath, trying to force the shudder out of his sharp inhales. He feels a tear slip past his lashes and scrubs at his face viciously.

“Sorry,” he chokes, rubbing his cheeks raw. “Sorry, I swear I’m not…”

He’s not sure how to end that sentence. Not a child? Not a fucking fairy? Either way, he’d be lying. He hunches his shoulders, curling in on himself and awaiting Dugan’s judgment.

“You cry all you want, kid,” Dugan says gently. “You’re in good company. I cried like a goddamn baby when I was resurrected.”

Steve sniffles, chancing a peek at Dugan’s face. The man’s eyes are kind and his expression understanding. It only serves to make Steve cry harder, folding over and sinking to his knees. He presses his face into his hands, and lets himself sob.

“I don’t understand anything,” Steve cries, chest heaving. Now that he’s started, Steve can’t slow himself down. Dugan crouches before him, sheltering him from wandering eyes, and Steve couldn’t express his gratefulness, even if he could breathe right now.

“Hey, son,” Dugan hushes him, “do you remember your life before? Do you know what year you died in?”

Steve coughs, sucks in a breath and holds it briefly. “I died in 1939,” Steve chokes out, feeling alarmed by this truth he has yet to truly acknowledge. “I think I was beaten to death.”

Dugan makes a soft, despairing sound and Steve is hit with a fresh wave of tears. He doesn’t try to stifle them anymore, pouring out his grief and terror and worry. Dugan curls his hand around the back of Steve’s neck and makes gentle, nonsensical sounds until Steve’s breathing eases and the tears slow to a trickle.

“Shit kid,” Dugan grits out, “you’re dealing with this better than I woulda. Beaten to death, shit.”

“I guess, anyway,” Steve sniffs, casting his mind back to the shadowed alleyway. He feels weirdly detached from the memory of three men shoving him around, laughing and shouting insults. He remembers the pain, but only distantly. “I don’t remember anything after that.”

“Jesus, what a fucking downer,” Dugan mutters around his cigar, but his hand rubs gently against the back of Steve’s head. Steve nods weakly, forcing himself to breathe slow and steady. His sniffles slow to a stop, and Steve scrubs at his hot, itchy cheeks fiercely.

“You feelin’ any better?” Dugan questions. Steve nods, digging his fingers into the frosty dirt between his feet.

“I’m okay now,” Steve whispers, voice thick from the tears.

“Alright Steve,” Dugan pats his shoulder. “On your feet, then.”

Steve fumbles up, shaky as a knobby-kneed colt, and leans hard against Dugan’s side. The man holds him close with one hand and pulls the gnawed nub of his cigar free with the other. He gestures with it toward a clearing bustling with activity, a sharp contrast to the cold molasses sluggishness of the rest of the camp.

“Let’s get you a gun,” Dugan grumbles, returning the cigar to his teeth. “And maybe some armor that’ll stop something more’n a spitball, huh?”

“I don’t know,” Steve starts, but it’s wobbly and tight, so he clears his throat and tries again. “I’ve never shot a gun before.”

“Yeah, don’t you worry,” Dugan chuckles, leading Steve back onto the dirt path. “You’ll get plenty good at it here.”

They sidle up to an open-front tent, where a woman in heavy armor is ticking boxes on something that reminds Steve of a clipboard. Steve can’t look away from the sharp, masculine angles of her short hair. She has a Ghost, metal shell bright red around its blue core, hovering near her right shoulder. It bounces once and turns toward them, points of its shell opening up wide the way a human face does for a smile.

“Hey Stella,” Dugan greets her, and she looks up with a strained smile. “We’ve got a fresh one here. Got any armor you can spare?”

The woman, Stella, looks Steve over quickly and her expression immediately dissolves into something matronly and pitying. Steve sniffs, jutting out his chin defiantly. He may be a red-eyed, snot-nosed cry baby, but he won’t take anything in pity.

“I don’t need it,” Steve announces, foolish and not caring at all. “I can get by without your charity.”

Dugan’s hand smacks into his back hard, sending him reeling forward.

“Now, none of that!”

“That light armor the Ghosts resurrect us with couldn’t stop a chilly breeze,” Stella says with gentle humor. “You’ll be more use to us with something decent.”

Her implication that he’s worthless as is has Steve gritting his teeth. He’s spent his life being worthless, a burden, unwanted and unappreciated. He fists his hands, channeling hot shame into anger.

“Well I wouldn’t want to be a hardship,” Steve snarls, gearing up for a real fight. Stella’s expression goes stone cold deadly and Steve lifts his chin, ready to take whatever licks she thinks she’s going to give him. The ratcheting tension shatters when Dugan barks a hard laugh.

“You crazy little bastard! Beaten to death and the first thing you do when you get back is pick a fight,” Dugan chuckles, rapping his knuckles against Steve’s skull. He turns to Stella, mollifying. “Don’t mind him, Stell. He’s got no idea what he’s on about.”

Stella gives Steve a dire look, but lifts her futuristic clipboard pointedly. Steve wheels on Dugan, ready to unleash his indignant rage on him instead, but the other man catches his shoulders and gives him a firm shake.

“First of all,” he says, punctuating his words with solid jolts, “shut your damn mouth. Second, whatever your hangups, leave ‘em behind. We’re at war for the sake of humanity. We don’t have time for you to bitch about your hurt feelings.”

Steve’s teeth clack with how forcefully he shuts his mouth. A stab of betrayal cuts through him. It must show on his face, because Dugan loops his arm around his shoulders.

“I know it sucks,” Dugan says softly. “I’m not trying to bust your balls, kid. There’s a lot you’ve gotta adjust to, and you’re not gonna have a lot of time to do it. Getting in a fight with Stella isn’t going to help you.”

“Sorry,” Steve grits out through clenched teeth. “I’m having a rough day.”

“I get that,” Dugan nods. “Unfortunately for you, it’s probably not going to get any easier from here.”

Steve makes a frustrated sound, feeling tears building in his throat again. He drives one toe into the ground, waving his hands around as if to encapsulate the entire encampment. “I don’t even know what this is. I don’t understand _anything_!”

Dugan pats his shoulder gently, looking over him at Stella, who’s watching them with impatience. With only a few terse words, the two come to some sort of arrangement, and there’s the shimmering light indicating something has been passed invisibly to Steve. His Ghost comes swooping out of nothingness unprompted, and, Steve supposes, collects the new armor to store in the inventory it’d mentioned on the flight over the ocean. With a few placating words of parting, Dugan leads Steve away from Stella’s tent.

“You don’t know anything,” Dugan says calmly, as they walk away. “Ask your questions, then. I’ll do my best to answer them.”

Steve lets all the confusion rattle around in his head until the most important question settles at the forefront of his mind. “What am I?” he asks plaintively, nearly begging. Dugan makes a face, like he’s thinking about cracking a joke, but Steve’s desperate stare seems to sober him.

“You’re a Guardian, kid. Call it a mission or your purpose or a job, but the reason you’re here now is to fight back the Darkness.”

“But what is it?” Steve insists. “And how do I fight it?”

“I don’t think any of us really _know_ what the Darkness is,” Dugan says apologetically. “You fight it with the Light.” Steve opens his mouth to snap about more elusive jargon, but Dugan bowls over him quickly. “I know you don’t know what that is yet, but I promise that you’re full of it and you’ll have it figured out real soon.”

“You’re full of it,” Steve grumbles uncharitably, sorting through his patchwork understanding of his current situation for the next question on his long list. Dugan guides him further into the camp, and cuts a straight line toward a small, metal shed. As they close in on it, Steve can see a shadowed figure within, working on something with their back to the entryway.

“You got anything for a newbie?” Dugan asks as they draw close, and the man tucked in the shadows of the tent turns. Steve’s jaw drops. It’s not a man, but a machine, all sleek, angular metal and bright green paint. The electric blue lights of its eyes snap to Steve and it snorts inelegantly.

“Only for you Dum Dum,” it says, in a deep and, in Steve’s opinion, shockingly normal voice. Steve gapes at the flash of red light visible from within its mouth as it speaks. It scoops up another fancy clipboard and drags a perfectly articulated finger across the screen. “He got anything?” the robot asks Dugan, jerking the board in Steve’s direction. Steve bristles, still agitated by all the charity he’s receiving, but Dugan claps a big hand on his shoulder warningly.

“Piss and vinegar and not much else,” Dugan grins, plucking the cigar from his mouth. “If you’ve got anything sturdy, it’d be much appreciated.”

“Yeah, got a couple of decent rifles, a shotgun or two.” It holds the datapad out to Dugan, who replaces his cigar to free up his hands. “Take your pick.”

“You’re too good to me,” Dugan says, studying the available inventory. He hums and haws for a few moments, before seemingly selecting a gun he deems suitable. He turns to Steve. “Where’s your Ghost, kid?”

“Uh,” Steve grunts intelligently, “I don’t know.”

Dugan rolls his eyes, poorly stifling a laugh. “Hey, Earth to Steve’s Ghost.”

Steve hears the newly familiar sound heralding his Ghost’s arrival. “Yes, yes, I’m here,” the Ghost grumbles irritably.

“Good,” Dugan grins, sliding his fingers across the pad some more. “Catch.”

There’s a short, sharp thunk of a noise and suddenly there’s a short-nosed, thick-stocked gun materializing in Steve’s face. He reaches up for it, wide-eyed, and looks disbelievingly between Dugan and the robot man.

“I… I don’t,” Steve stammers, holding the gun at a distance. Dugan rolls his eyes fondly, handing the datapad back to the robot.

“You’ll learn,” Dugan says easily. He turns to the robot. “Forgive him, yeah? He’s not even a day old yet and he ain’t ever even seen a microwave before.”

“What’s a microwave?” Steve asks, casting a confused look at Dugan.

“See what I mean?” Dugan shrugs at the robot. The robot leans down, peering into Steve’s eyes, and Steve leans back a little in surprised discomfort.

“What the hell year are you from?” the robot asks, and Steve finds himself staring at the flashes of red inside its mouth.

“The… the 1930’s,” Steve supplies after a moment. The robot snorts.

“Well, I’ll forgive you this once,” the robot says, before jabbing a menacing finger in Steve’s face. “But if I ever catch you gawking at an Exo again, I’ll string you up by your own intestines.”

Steve yanks the gun in close to his chest, squeezing the barrel until his fingers shake with the effort. Dugan stands off to the side, hands on hips and beaming like a goddamn idiot. Steve’s jaw hangs open in overwhelmed astonishment.

“Please excuse my Guardian,” Steve’s Ghost pipes up suddenly. It floats around to just under Steve’s hanging chin, and pushes up, the blunt points of its shell effectively closing Steve’s mouth. “He’s had a very trying day and I haven’t explained everything to him yet.”

The robot drops its menacing stance all at once, deflating exaggeratedly.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” it laughs. “I know how it is.”

Dugan holds out a hand, and the robot shakes it firmly. “Well, we’ll just be on our way,” he says and the robot fires off a mocking salute before turning back to its work. Dugan gestures for Steve to precede him, and they start off back the way they’d come from.

“So,” Dugan huffs with barely concealed amusement, “you definitely didn’t hear about the Exos before now.”

“No,” Steve bursts out, making a sharp chopping motion with his hand. “I had no idea there were robots running around pretending to be people.”

Dugan’s palm plops itself over Steve’s mouth, effectively smothering his voice. “Okay, you probably don’t mean to sound like a bigoted asshole, but buddy, you are.”

Steve’s eyes widen dramatically. All the years he’s spent getting kicked around, jeered at, and mistreated for being small or Irish or probably queer, and he turns around and does the same thing. He scrabbles at Dugan’s hand, pulling free with a gasp.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says sincerely, “I didn’t mean to sound so…”

He stops, waffling over the last word. Racist, maybe? He cants questioning eyes at Dugan. The man huffs, but relaxes his stance, pulling Steve in conspiratorially.

“Yeah, little pisser like you, getting mad about free shit? I didn’t think you were intentionally being an asshole.”

Steve nods emphatically. He’s always tried his best to be accepting of all races and creeds. This day has been a little more trying than his usual though.

“So what are they?” he asks quietly. “The robot people?”

“Exos,” Dugan announces, “are a race of sentient machines created by humans to fight their wars back, oh, a few hundred years or so? They remember being used to do our dirty work and being treated as lesser beings, so they can get prickly about their treatment now. Most folks don’t even bat an eyelash anymore, but well, Guardians can crop up from all kinds of times.”

“So they can feel things?” Steve asks, feeling like a toddler bumbling through societal norms. He wonders if this day will stop knocking him on his ass soon.

“Feel things like emotions?” Dugan asks. Steve nods uncertainly, and Dugan continues. “Yeah, far as I know they got all the same feelings as we do. As for the touching things deal, you’d have to ask one of them about it. Good luck though.”

“They don’t like being asked questions?”

“It’s a bit rude to interrogate them,” Dugan shrugs easily. “Especially on such a personal topic.”

Steve nods, letting his eyes wander over the gathered people. If he pays careful attention, he can see Exos gathered beside humans, their brightly lit eyes and the colorful flashes from their mouths not readily noticeable in the flickering firelight. He makes a valiant effort not to stare at them, but more than a few must catch him at it, if the long looks he receives are anything to go by.

They’ve walked for several silent minutes in the poorly lit, indistinguishable camp when Dugan speaks again. “Thought of any more questions?”

Steve takes a deep breath and gestures around himself. “What is this place?”

Dugan nods thoughtfully, pulling his cigar from his mouth. “This is where the Traveler made its last stand. Survivors have been migrating here so we’ve been doing our best to protect them. We’ve almost got the wall finished, just in time.”

“Who’s we, exactly?”

“Well, mostly the Titans. There are other Guardians around, but they’ve got different ideas of how things should be done.”

Steve looks down at himself, pressing his fingertips against his heavily armored chest. “I’m… a Titan,” Steve says haltingly, vaguely remembering his Ghost saying as much. Then he turns his eyes to Dugan’s armor, more intricate but of similar heft. “And you’re a Titan?”

“That I am. Most of us here are,” Dugan agrees, dropping the nub of his cigar into a pouch at his belt. “You’ll know it when you see one of the other Guardians. They don’t wear nearly enough armor, in my opinion.”

Steve hums thoughtfully, following Dugan closer and closer to one of the firepits. He stops just out of range of the light being cast off, and Dugan pauses ahead of him, looking back.

“Something else?” Dugan asks.

“What do I do?” Steve returns, voice small.

“Well, you probably join one of the Titan Orders. You learn how to control the power you wield and you use that power against the Darkness.” Dugan shrugs a little, turning his eyes up to the Traveler, then back to Steve. “Right now? You sleep if you want, or don’t. You make it through the night and when the sun comes up, you let me and my boys teach you how to be a Titan.”

“That’s it?” Steve snorts. “Sleep?”

“Rest while you can, kiddo. Things are only going to get harder from here.”

“Okay,” Steve says, feeling pathetic but letting himself cling to Dugan’s kindness anyway. “Where should I go?”

“Your Ghost will find you an empty cot if you want one.”

“Right,” Steve agrees softly, nerves rising with the realization that he’s going to be alone again. It’s been nice relying on Dugan.

“You’ll be fine,” Dugan chuckles, planting his hands on Steve’s shoulders and steering him back toward the long lines of shacks. Steve nods once and starts marching decisively. He’s only gone a few steps when Dugan speaks up again. “Oh, and Steve?” Steve turns back, wide-eyed. Dugan’s teeth shine white in the dark as he grins. “Don’t call the Exos robots ever again, huh?”

Steve thinks he sees the man wink, and then he slinks away into the darkness. Steve feels anxiety crawl through his chest, so he takes a deep breath and squares his jaw.

“Hey, Ghost?” he whispers, feeling ridiculous talking to empty air.

“Yes?” the little construct says, appearing in a shimmer of light just off to the left of directly in front of him. The rounded points of its star-like shell pinch together, concerned.

Steve licks his lips and whispers, “Help?”

The Ghost shivers, like a dog shaking off water, and turns in the air as if surveying the area. “This way,” it chirps, buzzing off with haste. Steve stumbles after it, feeling the weight of everything that’s happened since he woke up. Came back to life.

“Why me?” Steve blurts, beginning to shake, fine tremors in his hands. The Ghost slows, doubling back to float before Steve’s face.

“Your soul called out to me,” it says seriously, little points of its shell pinched tight, “across space and time. Someone brave and strong and true. I knew you from the moment I was born. I’m sorry it took me so long to find you.”

Steve looks down at himself. At his sturdy legs, the length of his abdomen, the breadth of his chest. It’s everything he ever wanted and nothing he could have ever achieved. Something like fear settles thick in his throat.

“This can’t be real,” Steve whispers. He gestures to himself, baffled. “This isn’t me.”

“Your soul chooses who you become, Guardian,” the Ghost says, tilting side to side contemplatively. “I gave you the Light but you decided how to use it.”

Steve’s breath shudders as he exhales, and black crowds around the edges of his vision. It’s true that he’d always wanted the strength to back up his convictions, the size to be taken seriously. Maybe it’s true that, given the choice, his soul would want this large, powerful body to inhabit. A vessel better suited to its purpose.

“I want to lie down,” he murmurs weakly.

“Right,” the Ghost says, the bright lights of its face trained on Steve. “I’ll show you the way.”

Reluctantly, it turns and starts off again, slower and pausing to check on Steve behind it occasionally. He follows obediently, emotions flatlining until he is nothing but white noise. He doesn’t register anything but the dim trail of light the Ghost leaves in its wake. The distant city aglow under the Traveler’s wounded belly, the makeshift encampment around him, the easy chatter of the Guardians strewn about the area all bleed away to nothing.

“Um,” the Ghost interrupts quietly, “Guardian?”

Steve blinks rapidly, looking around stupidly. “What?”

The Ghost makes a gentle, concerned sound, like the clearing of a throat it doesn’t have. A click sounds and warm, yellow light flickers to life from a rickety fixture above them. The room is long and rectangular, single beds laid out orderly along the walls. It’s empty, and Steve wonders if he’s early or if this room only exists for newly minted Guardians who haven’t yet adapted to the strange new existence they find themselves in.

Either way, he wants to collapse and maybe never move again. He contemplates his armor for a moment, picking at what might be a latch near the shoulder of his chest piece, before deciding he doesn’t care. His Ghost hovers at his shoulder expectantly, but Steve has asked enough stupid questions about simple tasks today. He’s not inclined to ask how to undress right now.

He crawls onto the bed, fully armored, and curls on his side. He stares vacantly into the shadows under the next bed over. It’s not terribly comfortable, but the fickle, scrawny body he’d had before this nightmare had never been terribly comfortable, either. It’s a strange relief and Steve shuffles until his armor digs into his ribs, twists his hips awkwardly, and rubs against his neck irritatingly.

“I can-” The Ghost starts to say.

“No,” Steve commands sharply. His Ghost deflates visibly and Steve sighs. “I just want to sleep.”

The AI acquiesces, clicking off the overhead light and disappearing in a flash that sears color across Steve’s eyes. He watches the gloom settle over the room.

Maybe in the morning, he’ll feel better.


	2. A Titan’s Guide to Life, Death, and Resurrection (and Death, and Resurrection)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FORGOT YESTERDAY WAS FRIDAY? LMAO there goes my plan to post a new chapter every Friday rip me
> 
> **Glossary**
> 
> _Guardian_ : A reanimated corpse-turned-specialized soldier tasked with the defense of the last city on Earth and exploration of the lost remnants of humanity's Golden Age throughout the solar system.  
>  _Titan_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on strength and power.  
>  _Hunter_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on speed and finesse.  
>  _Warlock_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on... "space magic."  
>  _Traveler_ : A mysterious, city-sized sphere hovering close to Earth's surface which grants superhuman abilities to Guardians.  
>  _Ghost_ : A levitating artificial intelligence used by Guardians.  
>  _HUD_ : "Heads Up Display"  
>  _Fireteam_ : A small squad composed of 2 to 6 Guardians.  
>  _Cosmodrome_ : A shipyard located in Old Russia that once served as a vital link to space.

_"Wait for enemy to make a mistake. Die. Stand by for Ghost Resurrection. Repeat as necessary."_  
—Description on the autorifle _Fabian Strategy_

* * *

“Rise and shine, Steve-o!”

Steve startles awake, lurching out of his bed with a racing heart. He almost expects his joints to hitch, his spine to refuse to straighten, and yet he moves freely as he climbs to his feet. It’s strange, to be free of all-encompassing ache. It’s still disorienting, to be so different, but it’s certainly easier to swallow in the light of day than it had been in the suffocating dark of night. He squeezes his fist a couple times, feeling the swell of muscle in his forearm. His soul had chosen this shape, if his Ghost is to be believed, to defend humanity’s last bastion. He silently vows to embrace it, despite the strange chasm in his mind between what was and what is. 

He rolls out of his bed with a racing heart. He hears his Ghost materialize beside him, but doesn’t spare it a look. He casts an eye around the still empty sleeping quarters and then settles his gaze on the doorway, where a man in heavy armor is silhouetted against the sun. Steve scrubs at his eyes and takes a couple of steps forward. 

“Dugan?”

“Hey, hey,” another voice cuts in, and a second man pops into view through the doorway. “It’s Dum Dum, not Dugan!”

Steve walks toward them slowly, Ghost bouncing along in the corner of his eye. As he gets closer, he manages a better look at the new man. He’s dark-skinned with thick lips barely curved in a teasing smile. Dugan has a wide grin under his heavy moustache, and Steve immediately worries at what the pair have planned for him. 

“Uh, good morning?” Steve tries, hopeful. 

“Morning!” Dugan crows, sharing a laugh with his companion. “Good joke son.”

“Why?” Steve blinks. “What time is it?” 

Neither of the men is forthcoming, so Steve turns to his Ghost. “Uh,” the AI falters, “it’s just after midday, actually.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dugan waves a hand. 

“It’s not everyday you come back from the dead,” the second man says, smirking at the barely concealed laugh Dugan offers him. Steve watches their antics, thoroughly unamused with whatever the joke is. Barely suppressing an eyeroll, Steve marches forward and offers the new guy a hand. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, all carefully controlled cheer. “I’m Steve.”

The man rocks back on his heels, sobering quickly and giving Steve an assessing look. “Gabe,” he says, with a peculiar little smile. 

“Great,” Dugan claps, rubbing his palms together vigorously. “You ready to learn, Steve?”

“Actually,” Steve says, far more concerned about finding food than anything else at the moment, “do we have to start right now?”

Dugan just smiles all the wider and Steve stifles a groan. “War waits for no one.”

Gabe and Dugan lead Steve through the camp. In the light of day, the size of it is far more obvious, as is the sheer number of people in the area. Most of them are the heavily armored Titans, but Steve sees a sprinkling of others moving around. Some wear long flowing robes, no visible armor at all, and others are wearing lightweight chest pieces and long hooded cloaks. There are obvious civilians, families with children and heavy packs trudging in the direction of the Traveler. Most startling is the massive wall, looming over them in the distance and casting a long, clinging shadow over the land. 

The Exos are both more obvious in daylight and less alarming. The startling illumination of their eyes is less noticeable, even if the hard, smooth lines of their faces cannot be overlooked. Steve spots plenty of them, moving freely and comfortably through the humans. It’s a bit jarring, but not particularly more so than anything else Steve has encountered in the past day. He makes a point of not staring, and greets the ones they pass with a smile. It gets easier each time. 

They walk until the buildings become sparse and Dugan turns to Steve with a hard-edged smile. “You’re going to want your gun,” he says. “Gabe here will teach you how to use it.”

Gabe beams at him, flicking his left hand out, palm up. With a flash, his Ghost appears, spinning over his hand to regard Steve. After a moment, Steve mimics him, extending his left hand to call out his Ghost. The little construct appears, tipping upward to look at his face. Steve feels a little smile curl his mouth, strangely pleased to see his new companion. 

“Your gun, kid,” Gabe reminds him, holding his own weapon up as an example. His Ghost is nowhere to be found now and Steve blinks. 

“Where did you get that?” 

“My Ghost,” Gabe laughs. “They transfer materials through an orbital grid. For example, this gun was waiting in my storage and my Ghost transferred it from there to my hands.”

“They can do that?” Steve asks, gaping at his Ghost. 

“When I moved you into the airship,” his Ghost says pointedly, “that was transmatting.”

“How does that even work?” Steve wonders. Gabe steps close, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Smarter folks have asked that question and not gotten an answer,” he chuckles. He directs his attention to Steve’s Ghost. “Your Guardian’s got a gun somewhere, hasn’t he?”

“Oh, yes!” the Ghost chirps. “I’m sorry, I’m terrible at picking up on unspoken cues.”

Steve’s Ghost vanishes and in its place appears the gun Dugan had acquired for Steve the night before. Steve grips it tightly, completely unsure of the proper procedure. He’d never touched a real gun before all this, so he’s understandably uncomfortable. Gabe gives the gun a quick assessing look and nods once, decisively. 

“Alright, not bad,” he muses. “Let’s go over the easy stuff first.”

Steve nods seriously. If he’s going to be a Guardian, whatever that really means, then he’s going to give it his all. 

“So, your gun is called a scout rifle,” Gabe says. He gestures to the scope. “It’s a mid-range weapon, good for making precision shots. Usually has a lower rate of fire than your average pulse or automatic rifle, but it makes up for it with greater impact.”

Steve looks at Gabe, a little baffled. “So it shoots slow?”

“Some of them do,” Gabe nods. “The important thing about scout rifles is to remember to stay calm. Don’t panic, take your time to aim, and you won’t have any trouble. Slow and steady.”

“So I should be hoping I have good aim?” Steve snarks, trying to cover his sinking dread. 

“Good aim just takes practice,” Gabe snorts. “You’ll get there, we’ll make sure of it.”

From there, Gabe methodically breaks down all the pieces of the gun, explaining how things work and what pieces are most likely to wear down over time. They address possible problems and how best to troubleshoot them, although Gabe assures him that he’s never actually seen a Guardian’s gun misfire or jam. Steve is taught how to hold the gun, how to fire, and how to reload. 

“Well,” Gabe announces, when Steve has demonstrated appropriate handling of the gun, “that’s the boring part finished. How about we try something hands on now?”

“I’m going to have to shoot it eventually, right?” Steve jokes, and Gabe grins, pulling on his helmet. Steve follows suit, and they head out into the dry, dead landscape outside of the camp. They stop at what must be a makeshift shooting range, though it’s nothing more than the rotting carcass of a massive airplane with concentric circles painted on the rusting metal. Gabe walks up to a dirt strip, tramped down by endless feet, and lifts his gun. He squeezes off several shots, the gun cracking loudly and snapping back against Gabe’s shoulder with obvious force. 

He lowers his gun, and turns to Steve. “Come with me,” he demands as he starts out toward the crashed ship. Steve trots after him, stumbling over dead brush and tiny snow drifts. “Before you shoot that thing,” he says, gesturing to Steve’s gun, “I want you to know what they’re capable of. Especially because your first life was so long ago.”

“Is it strange?” Steve asks. Gabe gives him a questioning look, so Steve clarifies. “That I was alive so long ago?”

Gabe shrugs. “I wouldn’t say it’s common, but I do know a guy from the same century as you. Can’t remember what year exactly.”

Steve nods, accepting that answer. It seems to him that no one is particularly certain of anything here. As they get close, it’s clear that there have been a series of targets painted on the side of this aircraft, both by the weather worn paint and the way bullet holes accumulate in sections along the side. When they get to the current target, painted a vivid white against the rusty red backdrop, Gabe steps up close and places his palm flat against the metal. Only here, now, does Steve realize how substantial the bullet holes actually are. 

The metal is split, curled in from the force of being ripped open. The gaping hole left behind is nearly as large as Gabe’s hand. Steve stares, unable to look away. 

“This bullet,” Gabe says, tapping one finger against the metal twice, “has enough force behind it to crumple your helmet. I could blow your head off with two shots.”

“Jesus,” Steve breathes, reaching out to touch the jagged edges of the metal. 

“Yep,” Gabe agrees. “These guns are made to kill monsters. They’re serious.”

“Okay,” Steve chokes out, feeling overwhelmed. In all Steve’s life, the only gun he’d ever seen was a Winchester from The Great War. He remembers being awed and unnerved by it then. What kind of hole would it leave in the side of this plane, he wonders? Would it even pass through the metal at all?

“And now that I’ve put the fear of God in ya,” Gabe laughs, slapping Steve on the shoulder, “let’s go take a few shots.”

They trot back to the line of tamped-down dirt, and Gabe gestures for Steve to step up. Steve lifts his gun, holding his breath while he presses the stock to his shoulder and peers through the scope. The reticle dances madly over the distant target, exaggerating the tremble in Steve’s body. He grits his teeth, trying to lock his arms in place, but it doesn’t help much. Frustrated, and a little ashamed of his inexperience in front of Gabe, Steve clenches his eyes shut and pulls the trigger. 

The gun slams back hard, popping up out of Steve’s hands with the force of its recoil. As he struggles to keep his feet under him, Steve fumbles not to drop the rifle, ignoring the sharp burn in his shoulder. When he manages to steady the gun, he turns his eyes toward the crashed plane, squinting for the new bullet hole. 

“You weren’t expecting that kickback at all,” Gabe says, voice gently amused. 

“I don’t think I even hit the plane,” Steve grumbles, frowning down at his gun. 

“No, I don’t think you did,” Gabe agrees easily. “So, protips.”

He gestures for Steve to get in position again, aiming down his sights at the target. Steve tries to breathe through his discomfort, both physical and emotional, but his heart is pounding too fast in his chest. 

“First, you need a wider base, to help resist the kickback,” Gabe says, tapping the toe of his boots to Steve’s right shin. Steve slides his leg back, angling his foot to the side, until Gabe nods approvingly. “Secondly, don’t hold your breath.”

Steve’s head snaps around to stare at the other man’s faceplate. The helmet appears to be completely metal, no visor at all, but Gabe’s head is canted toward him unerringly. “How’d you know I wasn’t breathing?”

“Everyone holds their breath at first,” Gabe shrugs. “By trying not to move, you end up moving more.”

“Okay,” Steve mutters, turning back to the target and scoping in again. “So how do I actually hit the target?”

“Deep breaths, nice and slow. Finger firmly on the trigger, exhale, pull.”

Steve focuses on breathing, only vaguely aware of Gabe bringing his rifle up beside him. He watches the reticle, slowly up and down, but jittering side to side. He lets his finger rest against the trigger, and on his next long exhale, contracts his finger. He’s better prepared for this kickback, this time. His upper body rocks to absorb the blow, but his legs stay steady beneath him. His shoulder smarts, but Steve dutifully ignores it, lowering the gun to scrutinize the metal paneling of the plane.

Beside him, Gabe lowers his gun with a chuckle. “It hit that time.”

Steve turns to him, surprised. “It did?”

“Above the target, off to the right a ways,” Gabe nods. Steve frowns. 

“That far off?”

“Second time shooting a gun, and you already want the bullseye,” Gabe exclaims laughingly. 

“Well what good is it if I can’t hit anything?” Steve demands, feeling flushed with frustration and embarrassment. 

“Give it time,” Gabe tells him. “If you don’t catch on… There’s always shotguns. Now do it again.”

Steve grumbles, but sets up for another shot. It goes on like this until Steve manages to hit the target (if not the bullseye) on ten consecutive rounds. When Gabe lets him step away, Steve notices the sun just starting to dip down over the top of the wall. 

“That’s not bad,” Gabe informs him warmly. “A little more practice and you’ll be hitting the bullseye every time.”

“Sure I will,” Steve snorts. “When pigs fly.”

Gabe claps him on the back, setting his rifle against the back of his chest piece. Steve can’t see how the gun stays, there’s no obvious hooks or catches, but stay it does. Uncertainly, Steve mimics the other Titan, carefully lifting his scout rifle to his back. When he lifts his hand away, the gun remains. 

“Let’s go then,” Gabe says, gesturing for Steve to walk beside him. “There’s more planned for you today.”

Steve follows Gabe farther and farther out into the wilderness, past little snow drifts and long forgotten, rusted vehicles. In the distance, Steve can see a group of Guardians standing together, their laughter carrying over the flat terrain. 

“Um, what are we doing?” Steve asks. He’s only just learned how to point the gun in the right direction. What could he possibly hope to gain from whatever terrible thing these people have planned for him?

“Best way to learn how to fight,” Gabe tells him, “is to fight.”

“But!” Steve cries, trotting ahead of Gabe and stopping their trek. “I can’t fight! I barely know how to hold my gun. I’ll die!”

“You don’t need to worry about dyin’,” Gabe assures him. “Guardians don’t die so easy.”

Then Gabe steps around him and trots off toward the little gathering. Steve drags his feet, but ultimately follows. Gabe and Dugan are the only people he knows in this strange new world, with his strange new body. He’ll at least see what they have to say, since he’s come all the way out here. 

When he approaches the group, their conversation stops and they turn to look at him. Steve’s eyes are immediately drawn to one of the new men in the group. He’s thin-faced, with a shapely jaw and a nose just this side of too big. His skin is a rich, lovely shade of lilac and his eyes a luminescent, glowing blue. Steve groans internally, forcing himself not to visibly react. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dugan was hoping to get another shocked response out of him, as he had when Steve had met his first Exo, and Steve refuses to give him that satisfaction. 

“So there are people with purple skin too?” Steve hisses to his Ghost, wherever it is when it disappears, feeling ridiculous talking to the air.

“Yes,” his Ghost replies softly, still not visible. “They’re called Awoken, but they’re mostly human.”

“Great,” Steve grumbles through clenched teeth. He takes the last few steps up to the group, and takes a cursory glance at the last two people he’s yet to meet. There’s a scruffy man with dark hair and, to Steve’s mild surprise, an Asian man. He stuffs down the consternation, firmly reminding himself that this is the future. Everything is different. There’s a man with purple skin standing in the same group, for Heaven’s sake and he’d just spent the afternoon shooting a crashed plane with a black man. Even Steve himself is different, all tall and broad where he’d been scrawny and short before. 

“And here he is!” Dugan erupts, smiling widely at Steve. “Boys, this here is the new kid, Steve. Steve, these are some of the finest men I’ve ever had the opportunity to work with.”

The three new men give Steve assessing looks and he struggles not to shift under the weight of their combined gazes. “Hi,” Steve says weakly, feeling every bit a stupid child. 

“Let me introduce you,” Dugan says, stepping up to the purple-skinned man first. “This here is Falsworth,” he gestures to the Asian man, “and Morita, and that fella down there,” he gestures to the scruffy man, “is Dernier.”

“Nice to meet you,” Steve says, mostly out of habit. Falsworth smirks, and his unnaturally bright blue eyes glance over Steve’s armor.

“It’s always a pleasure to break in the new lads,” he says in a lilting British accent. 

“Eh, he doesn’t even know how to use a gun,” Dernier grumbles, in a heavy French accent. Steve almost wants to smile, hearing the different cadences to their words. There’s a familiarity in these foreign accents that reminds him of home. He’d always thought Brooklyn offered a lot of cultural variety. It had nothing on this wild place. 

“We’ll stick him with Gabe and Dum Dum,” Morita says with a sharky grin. “Let them suffer this time.”

“No skin off my nose,” Gabe chuckles. “He took to that scout rifle like the Fallen to scrap.”

“Oh, making you eat those words will be absolutely top,” Falsworth says. The four of them continue to sling words at each other, but Steve is distracted by Dugan’s heavy hand landing on his shoulder. 

“Don’t worry about them,” he says, smiling fondly at the group. “That’s just some friendly pre-game trash talk.”

“I don’t really understand what we’re doing out here,” Steve admits weakly. “Gabe can say whatever he wants, but I doubt I could hit the broadside of a barn.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Dugan intones. “What has your Ghost told you about the Light?”

“Uh, nothing?” Steve hazards. “It told me a little about the Traveler but not much else.”

“Hmm, well,” Dugan muses, “the Light’s a sorta magic power, I suppose, that the Traveler had. It used that power to push back the Darkness and to make the Ghosts. The Ghosts use that power to resurrect us and we, in turn, can use that power to fight.”

“So, what, we’re magicians now?” Steve snorts, disbelieving. 

“Not exactly,” Dugan grins. “You’re gonna feel it when we get going here. Lightning in your veins, maybe. For some folks it’s more like… like they’re all empty inside. We call it arc energy and void energy. You’ll be able to use both eventually, but everyone seems to have a natural affinity for one or the other.”

Steve levels a flat stare at him. He’s seen a lot of inexplicable shit lately, but this does not sound real. “You’re not bustin’ my chops, are you?”

“No, no! It’s real,” Dugan insists. “Titans use arc and void energy all the time. There’s a third one, but I haven’t seen any Titans manage it just yet. The other two use it though.”

“I feel like I’m at my limit of believing things,” Steve says plainly. Dugan claps him on the back, grinning. 

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Steve almost rolls his eyes. As stretched thin as he is, he’s really not sure he can deal with having magic lightning powers. That sounds so far beyond the realm of reality, that Steve feels secure in his doubt that any of this is real. This is all some fever dream, made bizarre by the trashy sci-fi novel he’d been reading most recently. 

“Alright,” he drawls, “what are we doin’?”

“Good man,” Dugan says. “You, me, and Gabe are gonna shoot at Falsworth, Morita, and Dernier. They’re gonna shoot back at us. Try to avoid the bullets.”

“We’re going to shoot real bullets at each other?” Steve squeaks. Real or not, getting shot has never been high on his list of priorities. 

“Steve,” Dugan says, dropping both hands onto Steve’s shoulders and giving him a little shake, “I promise, you have nothing to fear.”

Steve stares back, feeling a bit rankled by this bit of commiseration. He’s not a child who needs to have his hand held. If everyone else is ready to get shot, then so is he, consequences be damned. He was dead this time yesterday, so what does it matter, really? He squares his jaw stubbornly. 

“Alright, then. Let’s shoot at each other.”

Dugan barks a laugh, turning to the other four men. “Put your big boy pants on, fellas. We’re ready to go!”

“Normal rules?” Dernier asks, although to Steve the accent makes it sound like a sneer. 

“No supers,” Dugan says firmly. “Steve’s brand new. We don’t need to give him too much at once.”

Steve’s about to argue making the game easier for his sake, but the other men all produce helmets out of seemingly nowhere and split into two groups. Steve follows Dugan and Gabe behind the rise of a gently sloping hill, watching the other three move to a decent pile of scrap metal a ways off. 

“Alright Steve,” Dugan says, draping an arm over his shoulders and pulling him close. “Your goal is to shoot at those three dumbasses.”

“Why?” Steve asks, genuinely baffled. He understands practicing a real fight, but surely they aren’t trying to kill each other. 

“I want you to kill them,” Dugan says. 

“They’ll be trying to kill you,” Gabe tells him gently. 

“What?” Steve yelps. His heart is slamming in his chest, and his hands are shaky. 

“Son, I’m gonna ask you to trust me,” Dugan says. “And if you won’t trust me, trust your Ghost.”

With that, both Dugan and Gabe heft their guns and slink quick and low toward the crest of the hill. Steve, both enraged and terrified, flips out his Ghost and stares at it. 

“Yes?” it asks sheepishly, points of its shell pulling tight as it tips its face down. 

“They’re talking about killing people like there’s no consequences involved. Is murder not a punishable crime these days?”

“Uh, well, you see,” his Ghost fumbles, “I never really got a chance to explain the Light to you.”

Steve raises a derisive eyebrow, before remembering his helmet is on. “I’m listening,” he grunts. 

“I brought you back with the Light,” the Ghost says. “I can keep bringing you back.”

Steve blinks a few times, letting this sink in. “I can’t die?”

“Well, the jury’s out on that one,” the Ghost chirps, “but as long as I have access to the Traveler’s Light, I can revive you.”

“So if someone were to shoot me, right now, I wouldn’t die?” Steve demands. 

“No, you’d die,” the Ghost replies nonchalantly, “but it wouldn’t be permanent.”

“This is insane,” Steve whispers. “None of this can be real.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” the Ghost apologizes, the topmost point of its shell lowering, like the lowering of a brow. “I maybe should have led with that.”

Steve cannot deal with the shock, the disbelief, or the quaking fear threatening to overwhelm him, so he shoves it all down. He lets his hand fall to his side and drifts, purposeless, toward Gabe and Dugan. His Ghost bobs along behind him, making quiet, worried noises as it goes. Steve sinks into a crouch next to the other two men. 

“You alright?” Gabe asks. Steve nods, feeling empty and detached. He’s not alright but what can he do about it?

“So your Ghost finally explained a Guardian’s Light to you?” Dugan says brightly. 

“Yeah,” Steve exhales, numbly lifting his scout rifle. 

“Well, allow me to demonstrate the truth of it, then,” Dugan announces, before leaping upright and sighting down his gun. He pulls the trigger quickly, and the gun releases a short bursting rattle, then another and another. Steve creeps to the crest of the hill, peering into the distance. The other three men are tucked behind the pile of decaying, twisted metal, but Dugan’s bullets must be finding a way through to them. One of the men has started to shift out from behind cover, gun at the ready. 

With the ease of practice, Gabe rises up to shoot at the man pushed out into the open. Like Steve, Gabe has a scout rifle, and he carefully lines up a shot and fires three times, lightning fast. Steve watches the exposed man flinch back from the first hit and collapse, lifeless, when the second bullet connects. It’s the first time Steve has ever witnessed someone being shot to death, and he stares with morbid fascination. The man’s Ghost appears over his lifeless body, the central core expanding into a translucent sphere with the eight individual pyramids of the shell rotating around it. It takes only seconds for the Ghost to flash brightly, and Steve sees the man reappear just behind his two teammates. 

“Ha, eat a dick, Dernier,” Dugan laughs lowly, ducking below the peak of the hill again. He turns to look at Steve. “What are you waiting for? Start shooting.”

Steve balks a little at the command. Watching the rest of them shoot each other and return to the living in a flash of light is one thing, but being complicit in the act sets his chest to aching. He can’t do it. He cradles his gun against his chest and shimmies down the hill, back to the action. He hears the report of five guns, the occasional shout, the flash of a body being remade, and closes his eyes against it all. This is too much. He can’t do this.

He’s curled against the side of the hill, counting his breaths and ignoring his Ghost’s urgent attempts to get his attention, when he hears Gabe holler his name. He opens his eyes and turns toward the man, but Gabe is looking past Steve, reloading his gun with determined haste. Steve turns the other way and finds himself staring down the barrel of a rifle. The gun releases bullets in an unceasing, staccato wail. At first it doesn’t really hurt. The bullets pinging against his armor sting a bit, not unlike the feeling of sleet against an uncovered face in winter. 

Steve scrambles to his feet, torn between running away and firing back. He’s barely gotten his feet under him when a bullet rips through a weak spot in his armor, right in the meat of his inner thigh. The pain is white hot and instant, knocking Steve’s breath out of him. He drops to his knees, terrified, his mind blanketed by a shocked fuzz. It only takes seconds for the bullets to tear through the rest of him, and Steve, for the second time in his existence, is welcomed by the dark hand of death.

Being resurrected is different this time around. The first time, it was like being dragged upstream through a cold river and waking up screaming and confused. This time, it feels like being lifted out of a warm bath and then tossed high into the air. Comfortable and safe, followed by the fear and thrill of falling. Steve reappears in the world gasping for breath, feet floating a yard from the ground before the Light releases him. He drops gently, gun in hand. 

Steve has barely processed his second return to life when Dugan slams into his right shoulder, throwing him to the ground. Bullets thwack the dirt where he’d been standing and Steve can’t stop a high, hysterical laugh. Dugan, lying prone beside him, reaches over to clasp his forearm. 

“How was your second time dying?”

“It hurt!” Steve cries, still laughing uncontrollably. 

“It usually does,” Dugan agrees. He gets his hand on Steve’s gun and gives it a shake. Steve grips the rifle more firmly, forcing himself to seriousness. “Don’t be afraid to use that thing.”

Steve holds the gun out, looking at it critically for a moment. It seems obvious now what they’re trying to teach him. Shooting at other Guardians, watching them die and dying by their hands alike. They’re teaching Steve how to fight their war, how to be fearless. It only hurts for a minute.

“Right,” Steve says firmly, setting his gun against his shoulder the way Gabe had showed him. He crawls across the snow and dirt until he can peek around the cover of the hill. One of the others is kneeling, only tucked half behind cover, sighting down an outrageously long rifle. Steve looks through his own scope, breathing slowly, and pulls the trigger. 

The first bullet goes wide, and catches the man’s attention. The end of the sniper rifle rounds on Steve, and he panics. Completely forgetting the lessons from earlier in the day, Steve tenses up and yanks the trigger, firing wildly and missing consistently. The long rifle releases an echoing crack when the bullet leaves the muzzle, but the round has already snapped through Steve’s helmet and out the back of his skull before the sound registers. 

He returns to life with a frustrated growl, skulking to the crest of the hill and scanning the terrain. Dugan is rushing the others’ hiding place, while Gabe lays down covering fire. Steve lifts his rifle and waits for the other team to be flushed out. When one of the opposing Guardians steps into Steve’s sights, he exhales slowly and pulls the trigger. The man shudders before wheeling on Steve and letting loose a rain of bullets. Steve manages to pop off two more shots before Gabe lurches into his periphery and opens fire. The enemy Guardian manages to kill Steve, but judging by Gabe’s triumphant yell when Steve revives, he didn’t last long either. 

He dies eleven times and is dutifully resurrected after each death. The bullets tearing through his armor and ripping open his flesh hurt every time, but the rush of charging into battle surges higher and higher, until Steve almost forgets the pain. Until Steve can stand in the line of fire, unflinching, and exhale slow, pull the trigger. One glancing blow off the helmet, and three solid slugs in the chest is how Steve kills his first man. Morita crumples to the ground, Ghost hovering over his lifeless body. 

He is the first to fall before Steve’s gun, but he will be far from the last.


	3. A Titan’s Guide to Joining a Cult

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's finally arrived! Please ignore all the lore I'm butchering to make this fic. u_u
> 
> **Glossary**
> 
> _Guardian_ : A reanimated corpse-turned-specialized soldier tasked with the defense of the last city on Earth and exploration of the lost remnants of humanity's Golden Age throughout the solar system.  
>  _Titan_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on strength and power.  
>  _Hunter_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on speed and finesse.  
>  _Warlock_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on... "space magic."  
>  _Traveler_ : A mysterious, city-sized sphere hovering close to Earth's surface which grants superhuman abilities to Guardians.  
>  _Ghost_ : A levitating artificial intelligence used by Guardians.  
>  _HUD_ : "Heads Up Display"  
>  _Fireteam_ : A small squad composed of 2 to 6 Guardians.  
>  _Cosmodrome_ : A shipyard located in Old Russia that once served as a vital link to space.

_”There is this sense of tattered nobility to them. You can see it in the way they carry themselves. They think they're better than us. They believe that Earth belongs to them.”_  
—An anonymous journal on Fallen Captains

* * *

“So who actually built the wall?” Steve asks at the end of his third day of play practice, as the group of them walks back toward the main camp. Instead of teams, they’d played every man for himself. Steve lost soundly, but even he could see the marked improvement in his abilities. 

“We did,” Falsworth says, aggrieved.

Morita works phlegm up his throat and spits it off to his left with practiced nonchalance. “Yup. Who else woulda?”

“Not those damn Coyotes, that’s for sure,” Gabe grumbles. 

“Aw, but I thought we liked Peggy,” Dum Dum whines theatrically. 

“Well, yes,” Falsworth agrees reluctantly. “Peggy is alright.”

“Her, and that other one,” Dernier adds, eyebrows raised as he looks around at the gathered men. 

“I don’t know if I _like_ Sarge,” Gabe muses, “but he’s plenty good to have in a fight.”

Steve watches the group chatter excitedly, wondering at everything he still doesn’t know. He’s aware that Guardians other than Titans exist, but he’s seen very little of them. The “damn Coyotes” are the scouts, hooded and sly as they slink through the camp. If they’ve given themselves a unified name, Steve definitely doesn’t know about it. The third (and if Dugan is to be believed, final) group of Guardians is the most bizarre, in Steve’s opinion. He’d met one of them, a man named Osiris. He appeared more like a man of the cloth, draped in long, flowing robes and speaking calmly of a truth no one yet knew. 

“Who’s Peggy?” Steve asks.

“We haven’t introduced Steve to Peggy!” Dugan moans, clasping his hands together under his chin. 

“She’s been out scouting,” Morita points out flatly. 

Falsworth swoops over to Steve, obviously ignoring Morita, and drapes his arms around Steve’s shoulders. “Oh, poor sweet summer child, how we’ve failed you.”

Steve watches Morita roll his eyes in exasperated acquiescence, before turning and trudging away. Steve reaches for him mournfully, not quite ready to accept the good natured teasing he’s about to suffer. 

“Peggy is _magnifique_ ,” Dernier informs Steve, heaving a dreamy sigh and winking at Steve. 

“That she is,” Gabe grins. “ _La plus magnifique_.”

“I don’t even speak French,” Steve complains, gently but determinedly freeing himself from Falsworth’s grasp. 

“Lucky for you,” Dugan says, “neither does Peggy.”

Dernier folds his arms over his chest, sharing a look with Gabe. He grouches at the other man in hurried French.

“No, you’re right,” Gabe tells him. He raises his voice to address the rest of the group. “Peggy does speak French.”

Falsworth groans, like this is an argument they’ve had multiple times, and Dum Dum sighs heavily. “That’s not the point,” he explains, rubbing his fingers over his moustache. 

“The point is,” Falsworth announces, “we need to introduce Steve to Peggy.”

“I’d be happy to meet her,” Steve says, placating, “but aren’t there more important things for me to be doing?”

“Well, you need to pick an Order, but otherwise,” Dugan shrugs eloquently. 

“Join the Chain,” Falsworth says immediately, turning his cocky grin on everyone gathered. 

“No, no,” Dernier cries, shaking his head. “Firebreak is the Order to join.”

Gabe’s eyebrows quirk as he looks at Steve. “Have you even looked at the beliefs of each Order yet?”

“Kind of,” Steve shrugs. He hasn’t had much time for anything, which is how he likes it. Time to think will only bring him trouble. 

“See any you liked?” Gabe asks. Falsworth sidles into Steve’s line of sight, pointing to himself and mouthing “the Chain.” Dernier huffs loudly, but doesn’t try to catch Steve’s attention. Steve shrugs again. His Ghost had explained the philosophies of each Order to him briefly, but there were only three that hadn’t made Steve cringe. Two of those three are the Orders Gabe and Dugan have sworn their allegiances to. 

“I guess I like the Pilgrim Guard,” Steve admits, picking the third of his three options. It’s not a bad choice. The group believes fiercely in protecting the City, no matter the cost, and it’s a belief Steve thinks he can truly support. Even if he hasn’t actually seen any of the monsters he’s heard stories about lurking outside the walls. 

“To those behind the Wall, love and service,” Dugan says. The line calls to Steve vaguely, and he casts his mind back to when he’d heard it last. He recalls hearing the words in the bright, knowledgeable voice of his Ghost. 

“To those outside it,” Steve says slowly, dredging up the phrase, “fury and fire.”

“I almost joined the Pilgrims,” Gabe says casually. 

“I might’ve,” Dugan says, “if the Stoneborn hadn’t gotten hold of me first.”

“Yes, yes,” Falsworth grunts, annoyed if not for the smile betraying his good mood, “you’re all so special.”

“You all wish to defend the people,” Dernier sighs. “I believe we kill all the evil, so we don’t have to defend them.”

“A good defense is a strong offense!” Dum Dum crows, sending Falsworth and Gabe spiralling into laughter. 

“Well said, coach,” Gabe laughs, miming a motion like a spear toss. The rest of the four start acting out a scene, but the choreography is something completely beyond Steve. They’re close enough to their encampment now, though, that Steve can clearly see Morita watching them from an easy lean against one of the temporary buildings. His face is screwed up in such reluctant fondness that Steve has to smile. 

“They think they’re friggin’ comedians,” Morita grumbles when Steve steps close, holding out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. Steve declines politely. His lungs never could handle the smoke and even now, the smell equates to danger in his mind.

“They’re just having fun,” Steve says, letting his shoulder touch the wall beside Morita. The man snorts, sucking at his cigarette and blowing the smoke down over his bottom lip. Steve forces himself to keep his eyes down. He doesn’t know what it is about men with cigarettes, but he’s always been drawn to the precise curl of their fingers around the stick and their pursed lips when they breathe in the smoke. It’d gotten him into trouble more times than he can count in his last life and he really doesn’t need to be labeled the queer this time around either. 

Not that it’s false. Just, he likes women plenty and, for now at least, it’s simpler not to get into this fight. He hasn’t even been alive for a week yet, so Steve figures he’s allowed a few more days of taking the easy way. It’s not entirely clear to him if Guardians really form relationships anyway, outside of the bonds of war, so it’s not a topic he’s deeply invested in for the time being. 

No amount of excusing himself changes the fact that the ground becomes terribly interesting every time Morita lights up. 

“Jimmy!” Dugan cries, hurrying toward them with his arms spread wide. “Steve-o! What are you wallflowers up to?” 

“Commiserating,” Morita mutters, answering for them both. He smothers the cherry of his cigarette against the deep steel gray of the armor plating over his thigh and tucks it away in a pouch at his waist. With his hands freed up, Morita is ready and waiting when Dugan collides with them. Steve accepts the awkward side hug with outward misery, hiding the delighted thrill he feels inside. After his mother died, there weren’t many people left in the world who’d been willing to touch him with affection. Morita, however, has no such conflict. He holds Dum Dum at arm’s length, scowling. 

“Commiserating over what?” Dugan asks brightly, unperturbed by Morita’s apparent displeasure. 

“Getting stuck with fellas like you,” Steve tells him, trying and failing to hide the smirk tugging at his mouth. Dugan claps a hand over his chest, regarding Steve with a mournful look. 

“You wound me, son,” Dugan says. Morita scoffs, so Dugan turns to him with a grin. “Don’t worry, bud, you broke my heart a long time ago.”

“Good,” Morita seethes, but Steve sees the upward quirk of his lips. Their game of faux hostility is well practiced. Steve wonders how long they’ve all been here, living their second lives in this violent, persistent world. Dum Dum and Morita get into something of a wrestling match, bending at the waist and trying to toss each other into the dirt. Steve sidles away from them, catching Gabe’s attention with a wave and a nod toward the heart of the camp. Gabe waves absently, joining his friends in cheering at the impromptu wrestling match. 

Steve flips his hand out, summoning his Ghost. The AI shudders upon its arrival, like a dog shaking water off its coat, and takes up position just beside his shoulder. “Hello, Guardian!” it chirps happily. 

“Hi,” Steve says with a smile, pleased to see the little construct, even though they chat multiple times a day. “Any chance you know where the leader of the Pilgrim Guard is?”

The Ghost twists in the air, scanning the area slowly. It hops in the air and twirls back to him, points spread wide in what Steve has come to consider the Ghost equivalent of a smile. “Right this way,” it says, floating ahead of him with purpose. Steve follows after it. “You’re ready to join an Order?”

Steve shrugs. “I don’t know what else to do, you know?”

His Ghost turns to look at him, flying backwards. “Yes, I suppose. Titans generally prefer an organized social structure. Much more than the other Guardians.”

“What do the other Guardians even do?” Steve wonders. The Ghost’s hind four knobs spin clockwise.

“Whatever they want, mostly,” it says. The little lurching motion it makes is something like a shrug. “Some of them like working with the Titans and some never even come to see the Traveler.”

“So they’re completely disorganized?” Steve frowns. The Ghost titters at him and Steve narrows a look at it. “What?”

“Nothing,” it sings, sashaying around Steve. “That’s a very Titan thing to say.”

Steve snorts. “Well, I _am_ a Titan.”

“Yep,” the Ghost chimes, humming merrily to itself as it guides Steve toward the center of the camp. They come up on the main command center, if the ramshackle shelter can be called that. There are people crawling all around it, many of them in substantial Titan armor, some scholarly berobed folks, and the occasional small, programmed machine called a Frame. Standing in the middle of it all is a tall, imposing dark-skinned man with a tight, salt-and-pepper afro. Lord Saladin, as far as Steve knows, is the closest thing to a commander the Titans have. 

Saladin’s armor is intricately designed, decorated with elaborate trees and wolf heads in silver and gold. He is one of the very first Guardians, from what Steve’s heard, and most everyone gives him their respect without objection. He’s in conference with a Titan named Shaxx, easily identifiable to Steve because of the horns curving down alongside his helmet. As Steve understands it, Shaxx and another Titan named Zavala are Saladin’s students, although what they’re learning is beyond him. Command, perhaps? Or maybe the history of the Guardians, the Titans, and the growing City. 

“This way,” his Ghost says, interrupting his silent musings. It floats around the outskirts of Saladin’s busy administration. Steve follows absently, keeping his eyes on the imposing leader of the Titans. He watches everyone scramble around the immovable mountain of silver and gold, and is surprised when he spots a shadowy, cloaked figure glide through the commotion like smoke. The scout, the Coyote, slinks up to Saladin’s side and the Titan leans down to accept softly spoken secrets. 

“Here we are,” his Ghost says, and Steve blinks quickly, turning away. In front of him are a pair of towering men, one sharp-faced human and a cordially smiling Awoken. The latter of the two regards Steve for a long moment, while the other folds his arms over his chest and scowls. 

“Hello young one,” the smiling man says. “My name is Pardack Togore. This,” he gestures to his sour-faced companion, “is Vell Tarlowe.”

He gives Steve an expectant look. Steve feels his spine straightening under his gaze. “I’m Steve Rogers,” he says, feeling tiny and defensive. Pardack nods slowly, scrutinizing Steve with warm reflective eyes. 

“Steve Rogers,” he rumbles thoughtfully. “You are very new to this world. If you are seeking me out, do you perhaps aspire to be a part of the Pilgrim Guard?”

Steve is about to shrug, when he catches the scathing look Vell Tarlowe is giving him. Steve squares his shoulders, squeezing his jaw shut tight. Something about that look has Steve’s hackles raised, and there’s no way he’s going to back down from the unspoken disapproval. 

“Yes,” Steve says firmly, daring Tarlowe to challenge him. The man scoffs, dropping his hands to his side and storming off. They both watch him leave, although Pardack laughs fondly while Steve feels sharply vindictive. 

“Please forgive Vell,” Pardack chuckles. “He does not like to allow the untested into the Order. He believes very strongly in our cause.”

“To protect the people?” Steve says, uncertain even though he knows their maxim. “To protect the City?”

Pardack reaches out and lays a heavy hand on Steve’s shoulder, leaning close to him. Steve didn’t know his father, but this man is what Steve imagines a father would be like. “The Stoneborn built a wall to keep the Darkness away from this place. _We_ do not need a wall, for we are a wall. These people who cannot protect themselves, they need not know fear. Do you understand what that means, young one?”

“That…” Steve says slowly, “the people are more important than we are?”

Pardack watches him for a moment, then bursts into cheerful laughter. When the booming guffaws calm to gentle chuckles, he pokes one finger into Steve’s chest, just above his heart. “You have the right heart for this Order, young one, but Vell is not wrong to doubt.”

Steve lifts his chin, stubborn. “So how do I prove myself?”

Pardack smiles. “Go out, young one, and guide the pilgrims home.”

“Outside the wall?” Steve asks, torn between fear and anticipation. He hasn’t been outside the wall since his resurrection. 

“Yes,” Pardack says. “Have you found friends here?”

Steve nods, thinking of Dugan’s patient kindness, Gabe’s steady tutelage, Morita and Falsworth and Dernier spending entire days practicing with him. Pardack pats his shoulder and steps back.  
“Tell them you must lead the lost home,” he intones. “You are very new and it is not weakness to rely on friends.”

With that, Pardack steps away and Steve understands he’s been dismissed. He starts back toward the outskirts of the encampment, taking another peek at Saladin on his way back. The cloaked figure is long gone, but Shaxx and Zavala are still an impressive sight to see. As he meanders through the maze of temporary shelters, he lets his mind churn through the puzzle Pardack had left him with. What could it mean to be a Pilgrim Guard, if not that his life is less important than the civilians? 

As he draws close to the usual gathering place of Dum Dum and his merry band, he hears lively, raucous laughter accented by a high, feminine voice. He steps up his pace, straining against the waning evening light to spot the newcomer. Her back’s to him when he arrives, so all he can see is the floor length, drab cloak and wavy, dark hair falling just past her shoulders. It’s Dernier who spots him across the campfire, waving him close, more jovial than Steve’s ever seen him. 

“Steve!” Falsworth cries, followed by Dugan’s merry crow of, “Steve-o!”

He steps up beside the woman, trying to take her in without anyone noticing. From the way she cocks her hip and smirks, Steve thinks it’s safe to assume she is very aware of his staring. Steve flushes, embarrassed to be caught and grateful that the flickering orange light will only help mask his red cheeks. 

“Hi,” he says, too loud. He winces, casting his eyes around the group. Dugan is beaming at him. When their eyes meet, he waggles his eyebrows, which makes Steve blush even harder. He looks down, rubbing his jaw ruefully. Of course he’d get caught ogling the first girl he meets. He hopes Dum Dum keeps the teasing to exaggerated expressions and too-big smiles. 

“Hey Steve,” Gabe says, calmly because Gabe is the kindest of the lot of them. “This is Peggy!”

The woman to his right dips into a brief curtsy, popping upright with a wicked smirk across her perfect, red lips. “Hello Steve,” she greets him. She has a prim English accent that seems downright unfair paired with the mischief dancing in the corners of her lips. “The lads have been telling me I absolutely must meet you, darling.”

“Uh,” he grunts intelligently, to the mixed amusement and horror of his friends, “hi?”

Her smirk warms to something a little gentler, but her eyes in the firelight are fierce. “You’ve only been back for a short time, have you?”

“Less than a week,” Steve shrugs, keeping his chin tipped down. He looks up through his eyelashes at her. In the firelight, her skin is bronze and her hair a rich auburn. She’s beautiful.

Her fingertips brush across his gauntlets lightly, a touch he can’t feel. “Take this time while you can,” she commands. “Enjoy what you have now.”

Steve desperately wants to scoff, but years of conditioning keep him on his best behavior around such a proper lady. He swallows around the irritation and nods. “I don’t think I’m going to be hanging around here doing nothing for much longer, anyway.”

“What? Steve-o?” Dugan interrupts, taking two lurching steps toward him. “Are you getting sent out already?”

Steve shrugs helplessly. “Leader of the Pilgrim Guard wants me to go out tomorrow to prove myself.”

“Tomorrow?” Falsworth yelps. “You’re not ready for that yet!”

“He does not even know about the energies at his command,” Dernier sighs mournfully, shaking his head. 

Peggy scowls at the men around the fire, fists settled on her hips. “I thought you lot were teaching him what it means to be a Guardian,” she growls accusingly. 

“We have been,” Dum Dum says, holding both hands up in surrender. 

“He needed to learn everything, Peg,” Gabe soothes. “We were going to teach him the rest soon.”

Peggy turns to Steve, chin lifted and mouth thinned with strain. “I realize we’ve only just met,” she says, “but you should refuse your mission.”

Steve’s jaw clenches without his conscious effort, frustrated and shamed. Too many times in his life has he been doubted and held back and placated. He is not inferior to these people and he will prove it. “I’m going,” he grits out. “I’m not a child you need to look out for.”

He turns and storms into the darkness, ignoring his name being called behind him. He marches through the darkness, keeping a wide berth around burning fires, unsure of his destination. Anger roils in his stomach, making his heart beat too hard. His jaw aches with the force behind his gritted teeth. They don’t need to protect him. He’s exactly the same as any one of them, and they don’t hesitate to meet the enemy head on. Steve needs to get there too. 

“Stomping your feet and throwing a tantrum are pretty childish behavior,” says a tiny voice close to his ear. Steve snarls, uninterested in his Ghost’s opinion for the first time. 

“I didn’t ask you,” he spits, low and raspy. The Ghost doesn’t bother to make its presence known, opting to speak from whichever odd dimension it hides in. 

“You don’t need to ask. I’m offering my opinion for free.”

“Shut up,” Steve scowls, catching sight of one of the communal sleeping areas and making a beeline for the door. His Ghost harrumphs but falls blessedly silent. Steve lets himself into the building, quiet despite his rage, and sacks out in one of the empty beds. He has a busy day planned once the sun rises, and he needs to be well-rested.

* * *

He crawls out of his bunk while the world is still a gloomy gray, and trudges down dirt paths toward the outskirts of the camp. There’s a gate, temporary in appearance, presided over by three casual Titans. They pause in the middle of a card game Steve doesn’t recognize and nod to him solemnly as he passes. He nods back, feeling powerful and fraudulent in turn. He halts at the top of a gentle rise and stares out at the tattered remains of the planet Earth. 

With a deep breath, Steve hefts his scout rifle and starts off across the rolling terrain. He’s not entirely sure what he should be doing, but for the time being, getting away from the newborn City at his back is his only priority. While the sun slowly crests the horizon, he steps over brown, wilted grass and crunchy, white snow. His radar stays silent and calm, to his relief, until only the very tip of the wall is visible behind him. 

He slides down a snowy embankment, ducking down between a sheer rock wall and a ribbed, rusted cylinder Steve can’t figure the origin of. He flicks his left hand and his Ghost appears in a cascade of light. The points of its shell are pulled tight, and it stares silently at him, so unlike its normal glibness. 

“Any idea what I’m supposed to be doing out here?” Steve asks, gesturing around himself with one hand. The four points around the Ghost’s “face” swing clockwise, while the opposite four turn counterclockwise. A white distance marker appears, part of the heads up display his Ghost updates in real time to guide him, directing him further out into the wasteland, bearing a little westward. Steve snorts, torn between amusement and annoyance. “What, giving me the silent treatment?”

His Ghost’s only reply is to vanish from sight with a tinkling swoosh. “Fine,” Steve grunts, pushing himself upward and heading out. He keeps the marker on the center of his HUD as much as possible, only going off course when the land becomes too tricky to navigate. Without his Ghost’s near constant chatter, it’s nearly silent, save for the occasional gust of wind blowing dirt and debris against his armor. He walks until the sun hangs directly overhead, marveling silently at the strength of his legs, so different from the weak, shaky things he’d had during his first life. 

The marker leads him to the mouth of a deep ravine, imposing walls of rock lurching up on either side. A clear, rocky-bottomed stream twists and curves through the ravine floor. He walks alongside it, feeling vulnerable. He keeps one eye on his radar and the other up, unable to shake the feeling that this is where he’s about to meet the prowling danger he’s heard so much about. He remains on edge until he clears the canyon and looks out at the land before him. 

Off to his left is a road, pavement cracked and worn, curling up along the outer edge of the chasm wall. Straight before him is a large body of water, ocean or lake or neither he’s unsure, and a fishing ship, cracked in half and partially submerged just off the shore. To the right are the familiar gentle waves of brown and white he’s spent most of his day traversing. 

He heads for the ship, more out of curiosity than anything else. It’s split in jagged pieces, as though it had been wrenched apart by a vast force and deposited here as a warning. Very suddenly, Steve recalls poor old Mr. Baqlini from a couple blocks up the road. The man had moved to Brooklyn from somewhere in the Middle East, getting a job and earning money to send his family over as well. He’d been so excited, Steve had been told, for the three tickets that would bring his wife and two children to America. Three tickets on the RMS Titanic. He remembers his mother’s remote sympathy for the man, and the odd, detached way the man had moved through the world. He looks at this fishing ship, far smaller than the Titanic had been, and wonders at its story. 

He walks along the shore, toward the bow of the ship. As he gets closer, he begins to hear a voice, broken and filled with static. He stares up the arching side of the ship, itching to get to the source of that sound. It sounds like a recording, drifting down to him, and the mystery has Steve hooked. There’s no easy way onto the ship that Steve can see, but there may still be a way on board for him.

During the few short days of practice, Dum Dum had pulled Steve aside and explained to him a way to channel the Light to leap great distances. Though he’d managed a decent vault or two, Steve hadn’t quite mastered it. Now driven by his curiosity, surely he’ll be able to succeed here. Exhaling slowly, through pursed lips, Steve focuses on the bright hot Light lingering on the edges of his awareness. He imagines grabbing the threads of it, pulling it taut around his person, like a blanket of power. Straining to maintain his concentration, Steve takes a few steps back and takes a running leap at the ship. 

With only a few short seconds before gravity pulls him back down, Steve imagines the Light propelling him upward. In his mind’s eye, he sails upward in a graceful arc that deposits him precisely on the deck. In practice, however, the energy sputters around him for a moment before snapping. Bathed in pale, twinkling Light, Steve is catapulted into the air. The energy dissipates at the peak of his jump, leaving him in a tumbling freefall. 

In a panic, he drops his gun, flailing as he plummets head over feet. With each spin he can see the ship’s metal deck surging up to meet him. He hears his gun clatter against the ship, skittering away noisily, and clenches his eyes shut, bracing for the impact. He collides shoulders first, instantly knocking the breath from his lungs. The rest of his body snaps down like a whip, his heels hitting hard enough to jar the teeth in his head. He lies still, gasping for breath that won’t come, and staring up at the thin, pale blue of the sky. 

He lies there until his lungs stop hitching, then pushes himself slowly and painfully to his feet. He wavers slightly, tripping down the inclined deck to his abandoned gun. He scoops it up, quickly checking all the pieces the way Gabe had showed him that first day, until he deems it fit for further use. He carefully hooks it on the armor between his shoulder blades and turns toward the source of the crackling voice that had gotten him into this mess. 

Pressing against his thighs to climb the sloping ship, Steve walks to the metal cylinder tucked against the frontmost point of the ship. There’s a massive antenna rising from the top of it and a panel with a number pad inset in one side. The message spewing from the cylinder is completely incomprehensible, though the broken voice is deep and commanding. Steve stares at a for nearly a minute before he gives in to the inevitable.

Flicking his left hand palm up, he calls his Ghost. The AI, considering it doesn’t have a face in the strictest sense, manages to convey amusement at Steve’s suffering very clearly. Steve groans softly. 

“Okay, yes,” Steve admits begrudgingly, “I’m an idiot. Please help me figure this thing out.”

The Ghost swings two of its front spikes wide, as if to mimic a raised brow, but turns to the panel with industrious focus. A thin beam of blue light projects from the center of the Ghost’s mass, connecting with the panel with a sort of fizzling sound. The beam evaporates after a moment, and the Ghost repositions before sending out another beam. It does this for nearly a full minute before the message clears up and the deep voice is projected clear and smooth. 

Unfortunately, the message is in a language Steve doesn’t know. He groans, turning to his Ghost with a shrug hitching up his shoulders. The Ghost stares right back at him, stubbornly placid. Steve folds his arms over his chest. They stare at each other, faceless AI construct to smooth, plasteel plate helmet. 

“Ugh,” Steve explodes suddenly, throwing his arms up. “You win. Please tell me what this thing is.”

“Oh, Guardian,” his Ghost says, voice flat and dry, “ _of course_ I forgive you for your temper tantrum.”

Steve bites down on his tongue to stop himself from snapping and breathes slowly through his nose. After he’s wrangled his temper into submission, Steve closes his eyes and grits his teeth. “I’m sorry I was short with you,” Steve grunts reluctantly. “I’ll try not to do it again.”

“That’s all I wanted,” his Ghost trills, bounding through the air toward the cylinder. “This message is in Russian, and lucky for you, I speak Russian.”

Steve rolls his eyes, silently grateful his Ghost can’t see his face with his helmet on, and gestures toward the cylinder projecting the message in a loop. 

“This is…” his Ghost hums thoughtfully, “A very old message. It’s warning about an attack… By foreign mercenaries? Hmm,” the Ghost mutters distantly, deep in thought, “I wonder if this is a message about the Fallen.”

“The Fallen?” Steve asks. “I’ve heard that a few times, but I still don’t know what it means.”

“Oh! They’re a nomadic race of pirates and mercenaries. They’ve been scavenging Earth for a while now. They’re ah… Mostly humanoid? But they have four arms and four eyes and they can’t breathe oxygen, so they’re always in environment suits.”

“They have four arms? Really?”

“Yes, yes,” his Ghost says absently, turning its attention back to the message. “Well, not the Dregs, but yes.”

Steve exhales deeply, planting a fist on his hip. “Dregs?” he asks flatly. 

“Oh, um,” his Ghost stutters, turning back to him. “The Fallen have a very strict social hierarchy, and Dregs are the lowest on the ladder. Uh, I’m not positive about this,” his Ghost adds uncertainly, “but it’s possible they only have two arms because the other pair are removed.”

“They cut their arms off?” Steve boggles, horrified and trying to hide it. 

“Mmm,” the Ghost agrees mildly. “I’m pretty sure they can grow them back though.”

“Jesus,” Steve whispers, crossing himself. As if this bizarre world he’d woken up in hadn’t been strange enough. 

“Well, they won’t usually be your biggest problem anyway,” the Ghost hums absently. “They travel in packs, usually with a Vandal or Captain leading. Anyway,” the construct continues brightly, “what’s really interesting about this message is the sender!”

“And why’s that?” Steve asks, letting the rest go as the intense curiosity from earlier unfurls in his chest again. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s from Rasputin.” Steve is about to ask what exactly that means, but his Ghost jumps on explaining it before he can. “He’s an old Warmind. That is, uh… Basically these really advanced AIs created during the Golden Age for strategic warfare purposes. There were a bunch of them before the Collapse, but they were all deactivated. So this is a real piece of history!”

“Oh,” Steve says, mildly disappointed. “So nothing to do with this ship.”

“Uh, probably not, no,” his Ghost says, regarding him. Steve nods. 

“In that case, I guess we’d better get back to our mission,” he gestures over his shoulder, in the general direction the marker on his HUD is pointing. 

“Right,” the Ghost says. “Try to land a little more gracefully on the way down.”

It disappears before Steve can swat it like a particularly annoying fly, laughing in his ear as it goes. Steve sighs, trudging toward the side of the ship and looking down over the railing. 

“I can make this,” he says to himself, clambering up onto the railing and crouching with his hand still wrapped around the topmost bar. He doesn’t bother using the Light to enhance his jump, instead crashing into the shallows and digging deep craters into the wet sand. He grunts a bit on impact and stumbles forward under the momentum he couldn’t shed. “Nailed it,” Steve whispers, smiling to himself when his Ghost bursts into laughter. 

Guilty for getting sidetracked by the ship, Steve moves over the wide, sprawling plain with focused purpose. The sun has started to descend before him, so he keeps his head lowered against the glare. His march feels endless and keeping his mind on the task at hand feels like slogging through deep mud. The sun is almost eye level, close to dipping below the horizon when the long quiet of the day is split wide open. 

A high, zinging sound tears through the air, followed by the loud, low belch of a gun. His heart trips into overdrive immediately and he lifts his rifle to a ready position. Shaking with nerves or adrenaline or both, Steve breaks into a quick jog. 

“What should I do?” Steve whispers, even though Dum Dum’s careful advice is ringing through his mind. 

“Keep an eye on your radar,” his Ghost instructs cooly. “Red are enemies, blue are friendlies.”

“Right,” Steve pants, breathless but not for the running. He tries to keep to the low ground with the idea of coming up on the fight unnoticed. 

“This is where the mission marker was,” his Ghost informs him. Steve nods absently, more focused on finding the gunfight. He hears the report of the gun again, and a high, tight scream. Without hesitation, Steve abandons stealth and clambers up the nearest hill. He scans the area before careening down the otherside. The next gentle slope crests, and he spots a small child a little to his right scramble behind a boulder, hands clamped over their ears desperately. 

He races, keeping his eyes on the area beyond the child’s hiding place. As he draws closer, he hears the electric zing again, and two bursts from the other gun. He charges past the boulder and around a rusty, collapsing shack, skidding to a stop at the commotion. There’s a young woman, rich brown skin and curly black hair pulled into a wide ponytail dancing toe to toe with a creature Steve’s never seen before. 

It’s a humanoid creature in a brown, armored suit, wearing a helmet with a tuft of reddish hair rising up along the middle. It has only two arms, Steve notes. A Dreg. There’s a pistol of some sort in one of its hands, but it’s slashing at the girl with a knife with its other hand. The girl lurches backwards, ducking to the side and raising the massive shotgun in her hands. She fires, nearly knocked off her feet be the recoil. The shot goes wide, although some of the buckshot pings loudly against the Dreg’s armor. 

Steve lifts his rifle, blowing out a few harsh breaths before he feels steady enough to pull the trigger. The first shot slams into the alien’s shoulder, sending it jerking backwards. It turns four white, glowing eyes on Steve and raises its pistol. Steve breathes, and pulls the trigger, again and again and again, until the Dreg collapses to the ground with a rattling wail. Steve lowers his gun slightly, trembling, and stares at the crumpled body. 

“A Guardian!” a high, childish voice crows, followed by the sound of little feet pelting over the terrain. Steve rips his eyes away from the alien body and casts a look at the girl with the shotgun. 

“Are you alright?”

She pulls the shotgun close to her body, cradling it defensively. “Our whole village was traveling to the City,” she says in an accent that immediately reminds Steve of Ms. Torres, who sometimes sewed Steve’s buttons back on his clothes for him after his mother died. She always insisted he didn’t do it right himself. The girl shifts restlessly, drawing Steve’s attention away from the past. “My little brother and me got separated.”

Steve turns his eyes toward the small boy gaping up at him from behind several layers of drab scarf. “But neither of you are hurt?”

The girl shakes her head, then turns to her brother. “Are you okay, Luis?”

The boy nods, stepping sideways to grab a handful of his sister’s coat, eyes never leaving Steve. “Izzy, look! A Guardian _was_ watching over us. I told you so!”

“Stop, Luis,” she hisses, yanking on his sleeve harshly. “There was no Guardian watching over us.” She casts Steve a disapproving glare. “We have to be able to protect ourselves.”

“But he’s _right here_ ,” the boy insists. “He must be here for us.”

“I am here for you,” Steve says, trying for warm and comforting. The little boy obviously trusts him, but the older girl looks ready to spit at his continued presence. She certainly doesn’t seem all that grateful for the assist, either. 

“See!” Luis yells, making both Izzy and Steve wince. While she tries to shush her brother, Steve scans the surrounding area. He wonders absently if there was a Guardian watching over these children before Steve got here. One of the scouts, maybe, might have kept an eye on them from afar. But then, why would they have left the children to fend off that Dreg alone?

Steve’s eyes drop back to the limp alien body, lying alone on the dry, brown grass. Packs, his Ghost had said. They travel in packs. Suddenly nervous, Steve takes a step toward the children, trying to shoo them along the path he’d taken to get here. 

“We should get moving,” he says gently. “The City is pretty far still, and it’ll be night before too long.”

Izzy scoffs at him, but shoves the shotgun into the crook of one arm, grabbing Luis’ hand with the other. “We don’t need your help,” she announces haughtily. She does starts walking in the direction Steve was attempting to herd them in, though, so he bites down on the flare of indignation. 

“Unfortunately for you,” Steve tells her, “we’re going the same way, so you’ll have to deal with having me here.”

He keeps one eye on his radar, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. There must be other Fallen around, and it’s only a matter of time before they find their comrade’s body. Steve would like to have these children far from here before then. 

His Ghost marks the way back and Steve tries to direct the children over the easiest terrain. Izzy resists, sometimes stubbornly scampering on three limbs up steep slopes or scraping through tight crevices between rocks. Luis, after the first few clambering climbs, grows visibly tired, and Steve has to slow down to accommodate him. Alone he’d been making excellent time, but slowed to the pace of two short legged children, they’ll be lucky to make it back before nightfall tomorrow. 

The sun has nearly set, making the whole world glow pale orange and rich purple when Steve hears an inhuman chatter behind him. “Go,” he hisses at the children, pointing forward. “Run and hide.”

They take off, Izzy nearly dragging Luis behind her, and Steve watches until they’ve cleared the next rolling hill. He wheels then, spotting the alien immediately, paused on a flat piece of land and steadying a long rifle. It has four arms Steve realizes, marking it as higher in the Fallen’s social hierarchy than a Dreg. Steve jerks his gun up, firing without looking down the scope. The bullet smacks into the ground between its feet, spraying dirt into the air and startling the Fallen. It stutters back, rifle whining, and shoots wildly in turn. The energy bolt pounds into Steve’s thigh, not breaking through his armor, but bludgeoning him all the same. 

Steve slips on the thin snow cover, favoring his leg, and tumbles backwards into a dip in the earth. He shoves himself to his feet, too full of nervous adrenaline to feel embarrassed, and looks around. To his left is the sniper, but to his right are a Dreg and a much larger, four-limbed Fallen. The duo have their backs to him, scouring the land as they move. Looking for the children, Steve realizes with horror. He breaks into a run, ignoring the pain in his leg and trying to hold his gun steady so he can sight down the barrel. Although he’s seen Dum Dum and his boys pull this move, he can’t seem to handle it himself. He lowers his gun and puts all his effort into rushing. 

When he’s closed the distance between himself and the aliens, he stops and raises his gun. The larger of the two Fallen is probably more dangerous and certainly the better target, but Steve knows he can take that Dreg with just a couple shots. He lines up and opens fire, pelting the smaller alien until it crumples. The larger turns to stare at him over an armored shoulder, blue eyes lit up and shining in the dark. It makes a sweeping motion with the lower of its right arms and starts storming toward Steve. 

Its top two hands are cradling a massive gun, flickering orange flames leaping out of the back end of it. Steve steadies himself and opens fire, shooting as quickly as his gun will allow. Each bullet pings to a halt before it touches the alien, a brilliant orange flare rising up as they do. The Fallen stops, ignoring Steve’s attempts to harm it and cocks its head at Steve in a contemplative manner. Steve swallows thickly, finger paused over the trigger. The Dregs are easy to kill, almost mindless in their attacks, but this one is infinitely calmer, thoughtful. It makes Steve distinctly uncomfortable. 

The alien lifts its oversized gun, lets loose a rumbling, guttural laugh, and fires at Steve. Even from a distance, Steve can see the giant, molten slug propelled from the gun’s mouth, and he dives behind a small rock just before it hits. The top of the rock explodes, uncomfortable heat washing over Steve and uneven chunks of rock raining down on him. 

“What the fuck is that thing?” Steve barks, poking his head up over the newly formed crater in his cover to look. It’s still marching toward him with purpose, its gun wailing as it charges the next shot. 

“That’s a Scorch Cannon,” his Ghost supplies merrily, seemingly unperturbed by the current situation. “Er, unless you meant the Captain? In which case, that’s a Captain.”

Steve rolls his eyes, too busy to be truly annoyed with his Ghost’s lack of situational awareness. “Why are my bullets not doing anything to it?”

“Captains have energy shields,” the AI informs him. “You need to take it down before you do anything else.”

There’s another booming discharge, followed shortly by Steve’s rock shuddering violently. A fine dust of crushed rock settles over him. Steve grits his teeth. “How?”

“Shoot more,” the Ghost tells him, shell moving in what can only be a shrug. 

“Easy for you to say,” Steve groans, crawling on his belly up the hill to peer down his scope. He fires three shots before the Scorch Cannon spools up again, the low whine getting louder and louder. Steve sinks back down behind his dwindling cover, curled nearly into a ball. He waits, finger ready on the trigger to take advantage of the cool down time between shots, but the explosion never comes. 

Instead he hears a scream, followed by the familiar low report of Izzy’s shotgun. His blood runs cold and he lurches to his feet, jumping onto the blasted wreck of the boulder. In the darkness, it’s almost impossible to see and the light being thrown from the Captain’s cannon won’t allow Steve’s eyes to adjust. He scrambles, rushing at full sprint toward the children. He dodges around the Captain, but the thing just laughs at him again, turning slowly to watch him move. 

As Steve gets closer, he sees a strange shimmer in the air, a sort of glint like the flash of light off a mirror. “A stealth Vandal!” his Ghost cries. Steve checks his radar, but the new Fallen isn’t appearing. 

“Great,” Steve grunts, skidding behind a twisted, H-shaped iron bar. It’s pitiful cover and he’s completely open to attack from the Captain. He ignores it, scoping in on the invisible shape lurking ahead of him. There’s no way he’s going to get a headshot, so he aims for central mass. He exhales, finger tensing on the trigger, but a foot in sharply pointed armor slams into his side, sending him rolling. Pain sings through his ribs and he catches a couple brief glimpses of the Captain, raising one of his lower arms in a violent gesture. Struggling to catch his breath, Steve springs up and limps closer. He needs to protect those kids, above all else. 

He hobbles at the Vandal, intent on grappling the thing if nothing else. He hears the shotgun howl, echoing in the open space, but his eyes are drawn to the little burst of light from the muzzle. Painfully, Steve stumbles over the rough terrain, collapsing to one knee when he reaches Izzy. She’s breathing too fast, shotgun rattling from how forcefully she’s shaking. A splatter of reddish-purple blood stains the ground in front of her, but there’s no body. The Vandal is still alive, somewhere. 

“Izzy,” Steve wheezes, like the scrawny boy with asthma he’d been once upon a time. “Izzy, are you okay?”

“Luis is gone!” she snaps, voice high and tight with fear. “I lost him. I don’t know where he is.”

“Okay, it’s okay Izzy,” Steve comforts, struggling to his feet and peering into the dark over her head. “I’ll find him, it’s okay.”

Throat tight with panic, Steve starts off through the dark. He hears Izzy walking after him, barely stifling her sobs. Steve keeps his eye on his radar, but the red dot marking the Captain’s location is hovering at a distance. Aside from Izzy’s blue dot, there’s nothing else. They’ve moved maybe fifteen steps when Luis starts screaming. 

“Izzy! Izzy!” He continues in a mix of Spanish and English that Steve can’t understand, but the absolute terror in his tone is heartbreakingly obvious. Steve stutters forward, unsure where to go but desperate to get there. 

“Luis!” Izzy is screaming behind him. “Luis, I’m here!” 

Steve scrambles to the nearest rise in the terrain, panting with desperation and pain. He turns slowly, trying to focus on the surrounding area and the two dots on his radar simultaneously. Luis is still screaming, which keeps a tiny flare of hope alive in Steve’s chest, but he can’t see anything. 

Suddenly Izzy bolts, still screeching. Steve chokes back the ache in his leg and the catch in his ribs, forcing himself into a jog behind her. 

“Izzy! Izzy, wait,” Steve calls after her, grimacing through the limp he can’t quite shake. “Iz-”

“The Captain!” his Ghost snaps suddenly, and Steve’s eyes flick to his radar. There’s a red dot behind him, closing fast. He pivots, gritting his teeth, and snaps his gun up. It’s a pointless maneuver. The Captain rears back, Scorch Cannon held high and tight, to make room for the knife in the lower of its two right hands. His world narrows down to the Captain’s electric blue eyes, the sweeping arc of its swing, the searing agony of being torn open. 

Steve staggers back, eyes huge as he takes in the deep red coating the knife, the Captain’s easy stance, and its grating voice, clacking out sharp sounds over his shoulder. Steve’s gun slips from his slack fingers, landing by his feet. The Captain lowers its head, reaching out with its bottom left hand to push at Steve’s shoulder. He collapses to the ground, eyes rolling in his head and breath growing raggedly thin. The Fallen crouches over him. 

“Hurry back, Titan,” it hisses, voice low and resonating, vowels dragging long. Then it steps past him, strolling leisurely. 

Steve fights, jaw clenched against the pain and eyes strained almost to the point of crossing to keep the encroaching darkness at bay. He can feel the blood pulsing in his neck and the heart in his chest fluttering, valiantly holding on. He hears a distant scream, blood curdling. Izzy, he thinks. 

“Stop fighting!” his Ghost urges. Steve blinks blearily at the pockmarked sky, looking for the little AI before he realizes it’s speaking to him from afar. “Please, Guardian, stop fighting. I’ll bring you back but we have to hurry!”

Steve sips a last breath of air, nodding slowly and closing his eyes. It seems a lifetime of striving to live hasn’t quite left him yet, despite a week straight of getting shot to hell by his new friends. He embraces the pain, ignoring the tears slipping from under his closed eyelids, and doesn’t flinch back from the cold, clasping hand of death. Steve feels distant and tired and finished, until he feels nothing at all. 

Awareness snaps back to him in a rush. He gasps a deep, unhindered breath, and lands on legs that hold solid under his weight. His hands are firm and steady around his gun. He scans the area, searching the dim world before him for the aliens he’d left behind. The Captain’s Scorch Cannon shines like a beacon through the darkness. Adrenaline washes over him, sending his heart thundering and his feet scrambling.

“Why’d you bring me back so far away?” he snaps, thundering over uneven ground at breakneck speed. He must be at least a hundred yards off, and not nearly a good enough shot to do anything from here. 

“I’m not resurrecting you in the middle of enemy territory,” the Ghost shouts back, indignant. Steve snarls, but doesn’t waste his breath on arguing further. 

The Stealth Vandal, weak from Izzy’s shotgun blast, has dropped its cloaking, brazen and flaunting. It turns glowing eyes at the sprinting Titan, two wicked blades grasped in its uppermost hands. Steve hears the Captain’s low laughter thrumming through the dark as the Vandal raises its swords over the cowering child before it. Steve pushes, reaching for every scrap of speed he has, but he knows it won’t be enough. He yanks his gun back, mashing the stock into his shoulder and stares through the scope as it jerks wildly. 

Izzy screeches and Steve grits his teeth. He pulls the trigger, trying to remember everything he’s learnt this past week. The bullet flies wide, serving only to pull the Captain’s attention toward him. Panic tightens his throat. He sheds speed, trying desperately to hold the gun steady. He pulls the trigger again. Then again and again, chewing through his lip to hold despair at bay. The Vandal’s arms start to swing down. Steve forces his eyes to stay open, afraid he’ll be the one to take Luis’ life if he gives in and closes them. 

Uselessness and rage build in his throat, but he doesn’t pull away from his scope. Not even when the world erupts in an echoing rush of air and the sky burns orange, stinging Steve’s eyes. 

Steve’s head snaps up when he hears the bang of a gun, just in time to watch a beam of fire slam into the Vandal, setting it aflame. It flails for the briefest moment before disintegrating into ash. Steve drags his eyes to the source of the light. It’s a man, burning golden against the inky velvet of night. He leaps into the sky, covering absurd distance by skimming through the air like a rock skips over smooth water, each little hop accented with a swirl of shimmering, white Light. 

Their golden savior takes aim at the Captain, dropping it with one shot as he had with the Vandal. The man is a Guardian, without doubt, and Steve would bet he’s probably the scout who’d been keeping an eye on the kids before. Perhaps he’s here to observe Steve and report back to Pardack. Whatever his purpose, he’s currently focused on slaying the remaining Vandal who’d sniped at Steve once and stayed well clear of the rest. 

Steve turns his attention to the children, scooping Izzy up with gritted teeth and carrying her, sobbing and ragdoll, over to Luis. She collapses over her brother, draping herself over his small, sniveling body. Steve stands watch over them, letting himself replay the Coyote’s burning entrance into their battle. It’d certainly been a dramatic entrance, lit against the backdrop of night and swooping in just before tragedy could strike. 

Steve knows there’s more for him to learn. Controlling the Light to enhance his jumping ability is only a tiny first step. Dum Dum had told him about Titans with lightning under their skin and the vast, cold nothing of space emptying their minds of all distractions. He wonders what the fire feels like; if it dries, cracks, and curls or warms and comforts. Peggy’s feisty eyes and friendly smiles come to mind. For her sake, he hopes the fire cradles its handlers, rather than consuming them. 

He’s startled by movement in his periphery, jerking toward the cloaked figure watching him with folded arms. The hood, a coarse brown material not unlike burlap, swallows him up, hiding both the majority of his helmet and most of his body with its volume. The scout jerks his head slightly, silently suggesting Steve come toward him. When Steve gets close, the other Guardian mutters, “You need to watch your fucking radar, pal.”

His voice is gruff, but drawling. There’s a touch of accent that sends Steve reeling back to the 1930’s, listening to the Dodgers on the radio with avid interest. He shakes his head, hearing the echoing memory of his mother scolding him for being rude. “Thank you.”

The scout scoffs. “You did alright. Could’ve been worse.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can guess what worse looks like,” Steve snorts. 

“How long you been back?” The scout bumps his head back, tossing his hood up and back on his helmet in what looks to be a well practiced move.

“Almost a week,” Steve shrugs. The other man barks a rough laugh, letting his arms unfold so his hands can settle on his hips. 

“I didn’t realize the Pilgrims were taking infants on these days,” he taunts, less than kind.

“I’m not an infant,” Steve retorts. “How long have _you_ been back?”

“Longer than I fucking like,” the scout heaves. His head turns toward the little pile of whimpering children, and he strides off without excusing himself from their, admittedly poor, conversation. He crouches down by Izzy’s side, settling a hand gently on her small shoulders. “Nice job with that shotgun, kid,” he tells Izzy. “And you too,” he says, using his other hand to tap at Luis’ nose playfully. “Nice work keeping that Vandal distracted so I could shoot it. You’re a way better teammate than that Titan.”

The scout gestures over his shoulder at Steve with a thumb and Izzy turns an unimpressed frown his way, obviously agreeing. Luis peeks at Steve between the protective wall of Izzy and the scout, smiling when Steve waggles his fingers in greeting. “I like the Titan,” Luis announces in that deeply confident way children sometimes have about them. “He’s nice.”

“Yeah,” the scout sighs, ruffling Luis’ hair, “big surprise.”

He pushes upright with a breathy exhale, gesturing into the distance. “There’s a decent spot to spend the night up a ways. Your Ghost will point it out to you.”

“You’re not staying?” Steve asks, sounding far too desperate for his liking. He’s shaken after almost losing Luis, though, and he’d appreciate the support of someone who’s obviously been doing this longer than him. 

“Why?” the scout sneers. “Need me to hold your hand, Titan?”

Steve feels his jaw clench tight. Actually, he’ll be just peachy without any help. Through gritted teeth he snarls, “No.”

For some reason, this makes the Coyote laugh. He walks over to Steve, clapping a hand to his shoulder. It’s not a comforting gesture, like Dum Dum’s friendly slaps. It feels instead like a challenge, something vaguely aggressive, almost malicious. “Get home safe, Titan,” he snickers condescendingly. Then he’s slinking off into the darkness like a shadow. 

“Hey,” Steve calls after him. He can’t see the other man anymore, but the blue dot on his radar holds steady, so Steve continues. “What’s your name?”

His question is met with a low, raspy laugh. “Get home safe,” the scout replies, speaking softly, as though they’re still standing right next to each other. The blue dot moves away, eventually falling off his radar, and Steve is once again the lone protector for these two lost children. 

“Well,” his Ghost grumbles, “he was certainly charming.”

“You could say that again,” Steve mutters, shaking his head. “You know where that good camping spot he mentioned is?”

“Yes, his Ghost is much more accommodating than he is,” Steve’s Ghost confirms, creating a new destination marker on his HUD. 

“Then I guess we’d better get going,” Steve says, walking to the children still huddled on the ground. Luis reaches up with both hands, fingers clenching and opening rhythmically. With an internal sigh, Steve leans down to scoop the boy up, balancing him on a hip with one arm. Izzy takes her place on the same side, fingers curled in the back of Luis’ jacket. They walk through the darkness slowly, all three of them drained from the evening’s events. 

Steve spends the whole walk with the feeling of eyes on his back, and can’t help but to smirk. Get home safe, his ass.

* * *

“Isadora! Luis!” The frantic woman comes charging through the thin crowd loitering around the main entrance to the City. 

“Mama!” Luis shouts, slapping an open palm against Steve’s shoulder until he stoops to set the child on the ground. Izzy is practically vibrating with the effort to remain stoic, chin wobbling as her little brother collides with their mother. She’s been thoroughly callous with Steve on the long hike back, but Steve recognizes that desperate need to look strong. He reaches out, setting a hand on her shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” he tells her, genuinely surprised when she turns large, dewy eyes up at him. “You did good.” He pulls his hand away, and jerks his chin toward Luis and his mother, wrapped in an urgent hug. Izzy barely chokes back a sob, dropping the shotgun and running for her mother. Steve stands back, smiling at the little reunion. 

He feels a light touch against his back, and turns, coming face to face with Peggy. Her pretty brown hair is mashed flat on the top of her head, wisps flying away from her face. She’s smiling. 

“I see you completed your mission, hmm?”

Steve huffs a laugh, shrugging. “I had some help.”

“Oh?” Peggy asks, lips plush around the sound. They thin when they start to curve into a smirk, and Steve snaps his eyes up to hers. 

“Yeah,” he exhales, feeling a little dazed. He gives himself a mental shake. “Yeah! You know I didn’t even know what a Dreg was before I went out there?”

Shock is clearly apparent on her face, even as she chuckles casually. “Did you need help with a Dreg, Steve?” she teases, punching his upper arm jokingly. 

“No,” Steve denies, smirking at the punchline he’s about to deliver. “But the Vandals and Captain were a little much.”

“Steve!” Peggy cries, grabbing at his forearm. He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck ruefully. 

“I woulda had ‘em,” he insists, grinning at Peggy’s smiling scoff, “but the help was nice, too, I guess.”

“Who was it who helped? Do you know?”

Steve shakes his head. “He wouldn’t say. Killed the Fallen, insulted me, and followed us most of the way home.”

Peggy folds her hands around her ribs, tapping a finger against her bicep thoughtfully. “And he wasn’t a Titan?”

“Nah,” Steve says, “one of yours.”

“We don’t even have a name for what we are, beyond Guardian,” Peggy snorts. “I hardly think you can assign ownership to any of us.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Steve asks. “Not having that kind of companionship with your fellows?”

Peggy smiles at him, wide and amused, but anything she might say in response is interrupted by Luis colliding at full speed with Steve’s knees. Steve winces, more for Luis’ tiny body against the plasteel plating of his armor than any discomfort of his own. 

“Hey bud,” Steve says, dropping into a crouch to tousle Luis’ hair and looking up at the woman approaching with a watery smile. Izzy follows behind her reluctantly. 

“Guardian,” the woman greets him, voice thick with emotion. She’s dark skinned and dark haired, with a smile so kind it makes Steve’s heart lurch. “My name is Jimena. I am,” she stops, choked up with emotion. “I am so grateful that you brought my babies home to me. Thank you, Guardian. Thank you so much.” 

She folds a little, breathing hard through the relief. Steve shakes his head slightly, unsure how to take this woman’s heartfelt gratitude. “No,” he breathes. “No, you don’t need to thank me. I… I had to help.”

He catches sight of Peggy nodding, a peculiar, knowing smile on her lips. Steve raises both brows at her, a question and a plea for help. Peggy waves her fingers at him, but provides no further assistance. 

“No, I must,” Jimena insists, wiping at red-lined eyes. “When their mother, my Colette, was killed, our children were the only reason I could find to get up every morning. These past few days, thinking I had lost them…” She breaks off, whispering under her breath in a language Steve doesn’t know. “Guardian, you have brought back my very life to me.”

“No, these children have brought my life back to me,” Steve says, feeling sudden and terrible conviction. He understands, with brilliant clarity, why his Ghost had picked him to drag back from the dead. His first life had been spent railing, despite his physical limitations, against bullies, bigots, and a system that refused to acknowledge his worth as a human being. This really is his destiny, returned to life with perfect physical form and gifted with the power to save the helpless. 

Jimena reaches out, touching just the tips of her trembling fingers to Steve’s jaw. She barely needs to reach down to do it, despite Steve being crouched so close to the ground. “Thank you, Titan,” she whispers. “You give me hope, for their future.”

With that, she gathers Luis up and turns, walking steadily. Izzy looks at him for a long moment. “Thank you,” she says, though it sounds terribly reluctant. She lifts her chin, staring at him with fierce defiance. 

“You don’t need to thank me,” Steve repeats. “But I’m glad I got to meet you. You’re very brave, Isadora.”

She rolls her eyes, folding her arms over her chest. Her cheeks grow pink, with pride or embarrassment, Steve isn’t sure. “Only my mother calls me Isadora.”

She turns on her heel, walking in measured steps for maybe ten feet before she breaks into a run and rushes after her mother. Her shotgun remains abandoned on the ground beside Steve. 

“Did you have children?” Peggy asks, from somewhere to his right. Steve snorts disbelievingly, falling back onto his butt. “Siblings, then?” Peggy tries. She drops into a crouch at his right shoulder, looking at him curiously. 

“Nope,” Steve says. “Just my ma, until she died.”

“Well you handled that well,” Peggy praises, tipping her head in the direction Jimena and her children had gone. 

“Must be my sparkling personality,” Steve jokes weakly. It makes Peggy’s lips twitch, so Steve considers it successful. 

“Must be,” she agrees, rising gracefully to her full height. “You have a successfully completed mission to report.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees mildly, “I suppose I should go tell Pardack.”

“Chances are,” Peggy informs him, leaning closer like she’s delivering some big secret, “your erstwhile savior will check in with him as well.”

“So?” Steve wonders, laboriously climbing to his feet. 

“So?” Peggy mocks. “So, you should get there first and tell Pardack your story before someone else does, you oaf.”

She swats at him and he flinches away from her playfully, clutching at his shoulder as if her light taps are truly painful. 

“Alright, alright,” he cries, chuckling. “I surrender!”

“Good,” Peggy nods decisively. She gestures to Izzy’s gun on the ground. “You should take that shotgun with you. Have your Ghost add it to your inventory. I’m going to find Dum Dum and stop him from sending out a search party for you.”

He snaps a poorly executed salute and she laughs, spinning in place and trotting off. Steve scoops up the shotgun, watching as his Ghost dissolves it into tiny cubes of white light, and heads into the makeshift HQ where Pardack is located. 

Pardack is beaming when Steve reaches him, smile still alarmingly warm and welcoming. Vell Tarlowe is nowhere to be seen, which Steve is inordinately pleased to discover. 

“Young one!” Pardack bellows, throwing his arms wide. “You’ve returned to us, and with two young pilgrims safely in tow, I hear.”

Steve wrinkles his nose in minor distaste, peering around for any sign of the Coyote who’d saved Luis from the stealth Vandal. Pardack watches him with obvious amusement, before gesturing broadly at a heavily shadowed alleyway not far from Steve’s left. He turns just in time to see a swirl of rough, brown cloak disappear deeper into the dark. 

“The sergeant had nothing but praise for your work,” Pardack says, sobering slightly. 

“Why?” Steve asks, unable to stop himself. “I almost got those kids killed. Luis definitely would have been dead if not for him.” He gestures to the alley, where this “sergeant” is likely still lurking. Pardack’s heavy hand falls on Steve’s shoulder. 

“You are still very young and have much to learn. The sergeant reports that you handled the situation as well as could be expected, and I trust his word.”

Steve purses his lips, wanting to argue but not wanting to outright disrespect Pardack. “But sir,” Steve starts, trying to leash his urge to dispute the scout’s words. 

Pardack shakes his head. “Captains do not often carry Scorch Cannons, especially not while accompanied by stealth Vandals. When you learn to control the energies of your gift, you too will be formidable. Besides, your mission was to guide the pilgrims home and, in a way,” he says, looking toward the alleyway and back to Steve, an unexpected sparkle to his eyes, “you have brought back more than I expected.”

Steve’s brow pinches with confusion, casting his eyes toward the scout’s alley. “I don’t understand,” he mutters finally, looking beseechingly at Pardack. 

“There are pilgrims who come to the City to live safely,” Pardack imparts patiently, “and there are pilgrims who run from the City.”

Steve frowns. He’s not particularly fond of this vague wisdom being bestowed upon him. “What? I still don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”

“That one,” Pardack says gently, nodding toward the alleyway, “has not stepped foot in the City for some time. That he came to speak with me face to face about you is very interesting.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” Steve shrugs. Pardack grips his shoulder hard and gives him a shake. 

“Stubborn,” he mutters lowly. “All the best Titans are.” He seems to think over his next words, lips pursed seriously. “You have come to the Light willingly. You see this perhaps as your destiny. Others do not. Some see this as a bitter burden. Those Guardians who do not embrace their Light cannot ever truly find their place in this world. They are wanderers. Is it not our duty, in the Pilgrim Guard, to shepherd the lost?”

“I,” Steve says slowly, trying to parse the meaning behind all this crypticism. “Am I supposed to… do something?”

Pardack stares at him for a long moment then throws his head back to laugh boisterously. He pats Steve’s shoulder, grinning. “You’re a bit lost yourself, aren’t you?” Steve nods, and he continues more gently. “You are already making friends here and you will always belong among Titans. Over time, you’ll bond with shield-brothers and shield-sisters and you will grow roots here, like a great tree. Our sergeant, there, has not. Reach out to him. Be his friend. We could all use more friends, in a world like this.”

He pushes off Steve’s shoulder, sending Steve rocking under the force. It matches up nicely with the way his words have sent Steve reeling. None of it really means anything to him, not yet anyway, but it layers over his mind gently, changing the angle he’s been looking at this place with. Ignoring all the fancy lines, Steve can work with that last bit. 

Friendship. He can, at the very least, give it a try. 

Pardack moves deeper into the booth that serves as his office, rummaging around until he produces a pile of folded, soft gray cloth. He offers the bundle to Steve. 

“This is your mark,” he says when Steve takes it. “Proof that you are one of us.”

Steve looks up at Pardack uncertainly, letting his eyes linger on the rectangular strips of cloth draping down from Pardack’s waist over his right hip. He unfolds the wad in his hands, letting his fingers trail over the symbol of the Pilgrim’s Guard on the longest strip of cloth. It’s six kites, two columns of three, overlaid to create perfect, smaller clones. The center most of these mini-kites is solid white, while the rest are simple outlines. Steve taps a finger against it and looks up to Pardack.

“It’s yours,” the man insists, gesturing to Steve. “Wear it with pride.”

He doesn’t deserve this, he’s certain, but he ties the mark around his waist anyway, craning his neck to look at the cloth swaying against the back of his right calf. 

“Thank you,” Steve professes firmly, feeling pride mingle with the weight of this newfound responsibility. He hopes these new, strong shoulders can handle the load. 

“Thank _you_ ,” Pardack returns, waving Steve away with one hand. “Go find your friends. They’ll be pleased to see you.”

Steve nods, but his attention is caught on the alley the scout had been skulking in before. He walks to the mouth of it, ignoring Pardack’s amused smile on his back, and peering into the shadows. He can’t see the man himself, but he sees the slow sweeping arc of a lit cigarette. 

“Congratulations on the skirt, Titan,” the familiar scratchy rumble reaches him from the dark. 

“Thank you,” Steve replies, then elaborates. “For telling Pardack I did well. I don’t deserve it, but I promise I’ll live up to it.”

The scout snorts. “Fuckin’ Titans,” he mutters. “I didn’t embellish, or whatever you fucking think. Pardack looks for a few specifics from his Titans, and you demonstrated all of ‘em. So take your goddamn skirt and be happy already, Christ.”

“I don’t think this really counts as a skirt,” Steve says contemplatively, stalling until he can find the words he wants to say. “It’s only a third of a skirt, at best.”

The man laughs, a rusty, scraping sound full of bitterness, like burnt coffee. “Shit, that’s the best joke a Titan’s ever told,” he huffs. The little red circle at the end of his cigarette drops to the ground and winks out, likely crushed under a heel. “Better run along to Dum Dum quick now. He’s probably shitting bricks that you’re not back yet.”

“Peggy was going to tell him,” Steve says, not sure if this sergeant even knows who Peggy is. 

“Ah,” he exhales softly. “She does have a soft spot for them.”

Steve stands awkwardly in the waning sunlight at the mouth of the alley, staring into the gloom. The scout seems perfectly fine with remaining silent from here on, but Steve still feels he owes the man something. 

“So do you only do the cover of night?” Steve jokes. “Or will we meet in the light some time?”

The silence drags long enough that Steve begins to wonder if the man has snuck out the other end of the alley. 

“I hate to break it to you, punk,” he grunts finally, “but there’s no fucking Light left in this world. We’re all sittin’ here in the middle of pitch black, waiting for the last goddamn candle to burn out.”

“Wow,” Steve breathes. “That’s… dark.”

“If that was a fucking pun,” the scout threatens from the shadows. Steve bursts into laughter, clapping his right hand over his heart in an age old habit, completely missing whatever the actual threat was. “Jesus,” the Coyote groans, when Steve’s laughter has mellowed out, “get the hell out of here already. You’ve pestered me enough today and I’ve got shit to do.”

“So I can pester you more next time?” Steve asks, feeling surprisingly excited about the prospect. He didn’t expect to enjoy this as much as he is, given their first interaction. 

The scout sighs, heavy and slow. “Sure,” he mutters. 

Steve grins. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

“Yeah? Keep tryin’ Steve,” he snorts in response. “Maybe I’ll tell you my name eventually.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve says, smiling, “I’ll wear you down.”

He waves his hand through the air, bowing with a flourish and heads down the path with the scout’s reluctant chuckling trailing after him.


	4. A Titan’s Guide to Fallen Homes and Gardens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Glossary**
> 
> _Guardian_ : A reanimated corpse-turned-specialized soldier tasked with the defense of the last city on Earth and exploration of the lost remnants of humanity's Golden Age throughout the solar system.  
>  _Titan_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on strength and power.  
>  _Hunter_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on speed and finesse.  
>  _Warlock_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on... "space magic."  
>  _Traveler_ : A mysterious, city-sized sphere hovering close to Earth's surface which grants superhuman abilities to Guardians.  
>  _Ghost_ : A levitating artificial intelligence used by Guardians.  
>  _HUD_ : "Heads Up Display"  
>  _Fireteam_ : A small squad composed of 2 to 6 Guardians.  
>  _Cosmodrome_ : A shipyard located in Old Russia that once served as a vital link to space.

_"These are our worlds...Take them back. Inch by inch. Bullet by bullet."_

* * *

“Alright, Steve-o,” Dum Dum says brightly, gesturing at the wide open, snow-dotted plain before them. “You ready for this?”

“I’m confused,” Steve says. “Are we doing recon or thinning the ranks?”

From ahead of the two Titans, Peggy laughs. “In this case? They’re much the same.”

His more experienced teammates head out ahead of him, Peggy’s pale blue cloak catching on dry, scraggly brush, though she doesn’t seem to notice in the slightest. Steve follows after them, half listening to their silly banter. He focuses instead on controlling his Light, concentrating on the sizzle of power along his skin. His most recent lesson is to learn to control the arc and void energies everyone else seems to have mastered. He’s getting close, he thinks, to being able to use it effectively. 

Peggy leads them to a dilapidated, vine-covered building set into a craggy rock wall. The building is made of corrugated metal, rusting from exposure, torn open and revealing a room filled with panels of lights and buttons. The second floor is almost entirely exposed, filled with snow. 

“This is it, boys,” she sings, gesturing to the skeletal frame above them. Without waiting, she leaps into the air. Steve watches the Light gather around her ankles as she seems to land on nothing at all and jump up again. A second midair pause and a third jump sends her gracefully into the wide open room. She pokes her head over the edge and waves them up after her. 

Dugan gestures for Steve to go next, but he shakes his head. It’s better to go last, so no one can see him possibly embarrass himself, although he’s been assured that the occasional jump fail is completely normal for even the most experienced Guardians. 

“Suit yourself,” Dugan shrugs, jumping. The Light latches onto his upward momentum and propels him at a smooth, consistent speed up to the second floor. 

“Alright,” Steve whispers to himself, “this is nothing.”

“You’ll be fine,” his Ghost tells him. “We’ve been practicing a lot since The Great Fall.”

He has been practicing a lot, learning to make the transition from his own physical ability to his Light smoother. Steve sighs dramatically, barely keeping his laughter in check. “I hate that you’ve put a name to my embarrassment.”

“I’m here to help!” his Ghost chirps brightly. 

Smiling despite himself, Steve backs up a few steps and takes a running leap. Just before the apex of his jump, his Light kicks in, slingshotting him up toward the open room, far faster than Dum Dum’s similar ability. He lands on the smooth floor roughly, skidding a foot or two before he gets his feet steadied. His companions both turn to look at his bumpy landing, though only Dum Dum decides to clap, slow and sarcastic. 

“Nailed it,” his Ghost whispers, and Steve snorts with laughter, folding over himself a little. 

“You’re improving,” Peggy says approvingly, and Steve puffs up with pride. Dugan shakes his head, gesturing with one hand, a slow descent, palm down. 

“Not that much,” he chuckles. “You still can’t land for shit.”

Steve huffs, amused but planning to argue with Dum Dum just for the fun of it. Peggy cuts him off. 

“Alright,” she announces. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, this building is rather torn up. Further in, the Fallen have cut through into the stone, creating a tunnel system that travels quite deep into the Earth. I’m here to ascertain which House is responsible. You two are here to cause a ruckus and keep the Fallen off my back.”

Dum Dum taps his fingers on his gun thoughtfully, face of his helmet lowered. “You don’t think it’s the Devils?” he asks finally, shifting his weight toward Peggy. 

She shakes her head, confusing the motion by shrugging as well. “It could be. They certainly spend a good deal of time excavating Old Russia in search of something.”

“Houses?” Steve whispers, prompting his Ghost for clarification. 

“There are several notable Houses, each with different belief systems. The Devils are prominent on Earth, but the Kings have been known to show their faces around here as well.”

Steve nods slightly, accepting his Ghost’s partial explanation. It’s easy enough to understand, given the Titans’ Orders. 

“What’s got you spooked, Peggy?” Dum Dum is asking, when Steve tunes back into their conversation. 

“There have been,” she pauses, waving a hand through the air as if she can dislodge the word she’s looking for, “differing reports. The Devils have definitely been here, but so too have the Kings. Sarge told me he saw House of Winter here as well.”

Steve perks up at the recognizable moniker, fairly certain it refers to the scout from his solo mission, and the dark alley. He knows nothing about Fallen Houses, however, so he keeps his mouth shut and tries to pay attention.

“Winter and Devils I might be able to overlook,” Dum Dum says, sounding genuinely shocked, “but the Kings?”

Peggy nods slowly. “I’m… concerned.”

“Do the Houses not usually get along?” Steve asks, looking between the other two Guardians. 

“The Kings openly attack the other Houses whenever they cross paths,” Dum Dum says. 

Peggy nods. “House of Winter doesn’t have a base on Earth, as far as we know. It’s disturbing to see them here, and willingly sharing space with the Devils.”

“Peggy,” Dum Dum says lowly. She sighs, folding her arms over her chest. Her oversized pistol rests against her ribs.

“The truth is,” Peggy murmurs, “I think the Fallen Houses have allied. I think they’re planning a unified attack.”

“You think they’re coming for the City,” Dum Dum says moderately. 

“I thought they were scavengers,” Steve blurts. “They must know they’re going to get a fight if they come after the City.”

“They’re obsessed with the Traveler,” Dum Dum says, shrugging. “It’s possible they came to Earth _because_ of the Traveler.”

Peggy sighs, shaking her head. “The Traveler visited the Fallen before it came to us, but it abandoned them when the Darkness caught up with it. The Fallen lost everything because the Traveler did not defend them.”

“It… abandoned them?” Steve asks slowly, mind churning. He remembers the deep suspicion he’d held for the mysterious orb when he’d first seen it. There must be a price, he’d thought, and he wonders now if this is it. A few centuries of glory brought to a swift, terrible end by the Traveler’s nemesis. He has only one question. “Why did it stay to defend us, then?”

Peggy and Dugan share a long look, complete with sharp, aborted gestures. Eventually Dum Dum snorts, folding his arms over his chest. 

“This is all rumor, Steve.” He tips his head toward Peggy. “Don’t take this story for absolute truth.”

“It’s the only explanation that makes sense,” Peggy retorts, voice clipped. She turns her attention to Steve. “The Traveler didn’t choose to stay. We disabled it, so it couldn’t leave. You’ve seen the damage to the underside.”

Steve nods slowly, remembering the dark, decaying belly of the sphere. “It had to defend itself,” Steve says. “And in doing so, it defended Earth too.”

“Precisely,” Peggy says. Dum Dum huffs loudly, turning away from them. 

“Are you done with the wives’ tale? We’ve got Fallen to deal with.”

“Very well,” Peggy sighs. “You two go on ahead. I’ll follow.”

Dum Dum grunts his affirmative, stalking deeper into the building without further hesitation. Steve tips his head in Peggy’s direction, but she simply waves him onward. He nods, raising his rifle and entering the ragged hallway after Dum Dum. 

The hallway deposits them in a dark, square room. There are several massive floor-to-ceiling columns in the main area, and a large, cylindrical tank next to a raised walkway taking up the back corner of the room. Everything is gunmetal gray -- the walls, the floors, the tank, _everything_ \-- and shadows cling to the corners ominously. Dugan marches through the room fearlessly, and Steve’s radar is silent, so he follows. 

They leave through a doorway along the side wall, and enter into another room. This one is vast and empty, echoing like a warehouse. The metal grating making up the floor drops away after a few panels, leaving a stretch of dirt flooring. Along the left side of the room is a wide, raised walkway. It extends from one end to the other, held aloft by suspension cables descending from the ceiling. 

Dum Dum hops off the metal flooring, kicking up a rolling cloud of dust when he lands in the dirt. Steve hangs back, purposely putting space between himself and the other Titan. “Hey,” he whispers. His Ghost’s icon pops up on his HUD, indicating the AI is ready and listening. “What Peggy said about the Traveler…”

His Ghost makes a strained sound, a decent mimic of clearing its throat, considering it doesn’t have one to actually clear. “The Traveler made me,” his Ghost answers reluctantly. 

Steve nods, hopping down into the dirt. “Yeah, but would it have done anything if it could have run away?”

“I don’t know,” the construct sighs. “If it’s any comfort, I’m glad it made me so I could find you.”

Steve puffs, not quite a laugh. “Yeah, I’m just that wonderful,” he mutters sarcastically. 

“You are,” his Ghost replies confidently. Steve squirms, embarrassed by the certainty of its claim, but a little pleased, too. He doesn’t offer anything further, and after a few seconds of silence, the icon on his HUD fades out. 

Steve returns his focus to the endless room, finding Dugan at the furthest end, peering up. There’s a twisting staircase leading to the second floor and, with one fleeting glimpse back at him, Dum Dum starts up. Steve stretches his legs but doesn’t see a reason to run to catch up. He listens to Dum Dum’s boots clank against the metal platform, the sound echoing softly off the walls. 

He casts a furtive glance over his shoulder when he reaches the staircase, wondering just how far back Peggy is staying. Her goal is different from theirs, but surely she needs to actually see the Fallen here to identify which Houses they’re from. 

He climbs the stairs slowly, listening to the loud rattle of metal jigging against the walls under his weight. Dum Dum is nearly at the opposite end of the walkway, turned toward the wall with his gun raised. From here Steve can’t see clearly, but he assumes there must be a doorway there. Dum Dum can be a bit absurd at times, but staring at a wall seems a bit off, even for him. 

Steve lets his mind wander as he walks down the endless gangway. He finds himself thinking of the precise shade of red Peggy wears on her lips and the deep, swooping curves of her body in her close fitting armor. She’s certainly one of the most beautiful women Steve has ever had the opportunity to speak with. He wonders what she would think about the scrawny, stubborn cuss he’d been before all this. “Probably nothing good,” he mumbles aloud, rolling his eyes. 

“Talking to yourself?” 

Steve startles violently, snapping his gun up on newly form instinct. Peggy laughs, holding up both hands, her pistol still grasped firmly in her right hand. 

“Jesus Christ,” Steve chokes, dropping one hand from his gun to cross himself. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Peggy says lightly. 

“Sure you didn’t,” Steve snorts. 

“Well, you shouldn’t daydream on a mission,” Peggy chuckles, wagging a chastising finger at him. 

“Dum Dum already came through here,” Steve points out, although it’s a weak excuse.

“Mmhmm,” Peggy hums. She sidles up close to him, bumping their shoulders together. “What were you dreaming about?”

“Nothing,” Steve grunts, embarrassed about it now that the woman from his idle thoughts is the one asking. 

“Oh? You sure you weren’t thinking about,” she drops her voice to an inviting whisper, “someone special?”

Steve groans aloud, putting real purpose in his steps to put some space between them. Behind him, Peggy laughs. 

“If you two are done flirting,” Dum Dum’s voice whispers to him in stereo. His Ghost’s icon appears on his HUD, but printed next to it in careful, clear text is “Dum Dum.” Steve takes a moment to be awed by everything the Ghosts are actually capable of, including, apparently, acting as a radio system. “I think I’ve found what you’re looking for Peg.”

Peggy zips past him, defying the laws of nature and running whisper quiet down the walkway. Steve trots along behind her, clanking loudly. The doorway opens into a narrow, low ceilinged hallway, lit by a couple of dim emergency lights on the cement floor. Some of the cement slabs are badly damaged, crumbling away to reveal the heavy, wire weave within. They rush to a corner in the hall, coming around to see Dum Dum next to another doorway, back against the wall. 

He waves them over. “I don’t know what they’re up to,” he whispers, the icon on Steve’s HUD popping up again, “but there’s a bunch of them in there.”

Peggy scoots to the doorway, leaning around cautiously for a peek. She backs away nodding. “Wait for my signal, then rush them.”

She takes off back down the hallway, leaving Steve and Dugan lurking outside the door. Steve starts counting to help pass the time. He’s counted just over three minutes when Peggy’s voice comes curling into his ears. 

“Gentlemen, they’re all yours.” 

Dugan holds his rifle before him for a moment. “You know,” he murmurs, voice filled with enthusiasm despite the volume, “I think a shotgun might be more fun in this situation.”

He hangs his rifle on his back and holds his empty hands out. A shotgun appears in his grip with a gentle shimmer of light, but he stands waiting beside Steve. Taking the hint, Steve follows suit, stowing his rifle and waiting for his Ghost to deliver the shotgun Izzy had abandoned at his feet upon returning to the City. It feels different in his hands, heavier than his rifle, but simpler. 

“Good lad,” Dugan says quietly, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “I’ll go left, you go right.”

With that, he whips around the corner and charges into the room. Steve hears the loud clap of a shotgun almost immediately and scrambles after Dum Dum, hanging right. He finds himself face-to-face with a Vandal, the both of them rearing back in shock. The Fallen carries two nasty, lightning-edged blades in one pair of its hands. Steve doesn’t bother to sight along the barrel, steadying himself and pulling the trigger. The gun jerks hard in his hands, smacking into his shoulder with unexpected power, but the Vandal certainly gets the worse end. 

Steve hops over the shredded remains of its torso and hurtles toward a trio of Dregs. When they spot him coming, they run, ducking behind a wide pillar. Steve pauses on the opposite side of the column, listening to the chatter and clicks from the Dregs and the low, rumbling bark of Dugan’s shotgun on the other side of the room. Steve takes a deep breath, swinging around the pillar quickly and firing twice in rapid succession. Two Dregs collapse at his feet and the third, spooked by the deaths of its companions, tries to flee. Steve holds the gun aloft, but can’t quite bring himself to shoot the alien in the back. 

He doesn’t get a chance to feel either guilt or relief before another Vandal rushes him. The nasty curve of its shock blade smashes into him, leaving a deep, blackened gouge in his armor and sending a jolt through him, tensing all his muscles involuntarily. The Fallen is so close, he can’t even swing the barrel of the shotgun to face it. Instead, he lowers the stock nearly to his hip and stuffs the muzzle against the Vandal’s chest. The shot tears through it, almost loud enough to drown out its agonized wail before it drops. The gun wrenches itself from Steve’s hands, clattering to the floor and skidding across the cement with a sickening screech. 

It’s a terrible moment to find himself empty handed. Hovering behind the recently deceased Vandal, shoulders lurching with exertion, is a Captain. It’s wielding a long, thick-barreled gun, glowing orange at the muzzle. Its two free hands lift into the air, fists shaking, as it clacks and grunts at Steve. He startles at the sound, backstepping quickly and fumbling for the rifle strapped to his back. His fingers close around the gun at the same moment the Captain aims down its sights. 

“God damn it,” Steve hisses, floundering to get his gun up. Two shots ring out in rapid succession, and Steve’s eyes slam shut as he prepares for the breathtaking burn of bullet wounds. It never comes. He opens his eyes to see the Captain stumbling stupidly, one hand cupped over its head. Steve checks his radar, and cranes his head back to see the shadowy figure tucked into the rafters. 

“Peggy?” Steve asks, bewildered but grateful. She lifts one hand to wave, and fires her gun with the other. The shot knocks the Captain flat, but Steve can’t draw his eyes away from the woman clambering down to meet him. 

“Very smooth,” she teases, though there’s an undercurrent of something harsh in her voice, and gestures to the shotgun on the ground behind him. 

“Yeah, I’m aware,” Steve grumbles, trotting back to scoop it up. He gazes at both of the guns for a moment before hanging the shotgun across his back. It might be more suitable for the current fight, but Steve feels so much more comfortable with the tapered grip of his rifle in his hands. 

Dugan comes sailing into view, energy projectiles trailing around him and telltale wisps of Light melting away from his legs. “You kids having a nice chat over here?” he barks. Steve assumes he means to sound chastising, but he only sounds outright gleeful. 

“Yes, Dum Dum,” Peggy patronises, “it’s positively lovely.”

“What are you running away from?” Steve mutters, trying to peer around the jumble of smooth panels, blinking buttons, and heavy, hanging wires cluttering the center of the rounded room. 

“Ah,” Dugan grunts, waving a hand dismissively. “Just a Servitor.”

“Ooh,” Peggy hums thoughtfully, “a Servitor? What House is it serving, I wonder.”

“What,” Steve sighs, tired of being baffled every time anyone opens their mouth around him, “is a Servitor?”

Dugan mulls it over for a moment. “Big, floating, purple balls.”

“They shoot void projectiles,” Peggy nods. “Rather nasty.”

“So why are you over here,” Steve asks, “and not over there, killing it?”

“Well,” Peggy says slowly, concentration seemingly elsewhere. “It’s probably time you learned.”

A glow rises around Peggy, Light building at her fist. A current cuts through the room, sending the short hairs on Steve’s body rising. Peggy’s Light pops, white shifting sharply toward blue and sending twisting bolts of electricity arcing away from her hand. Dugan chuckles and Peggy pulls back, slamming her palm against Steve’s chest. His body jolts, the shock tensing all his muscles and stinging over his skin. His heart flips over, revving up to a wild, slamming beat. 

“There we go,” Dum Dum announces merrily, shoving Steve out from behind cover with his massive shoulders. Steve spares the briefest moment to feel relief that his friends seem to have gotten over the discomfort of their earlier disagreement, even if it leads to him being the target of their meddling.

“Think about that feeling, Steve!” Peggy calls. “Make the lightning your own!”

“Don’t worry, son,” Dugan shouts jovially. “I killed everything but the Servitor.”

“Good luck!”

Steve stands awkwardly in the open, gaping over his shoulder at the two Guardians waving him off like he’s about to sail away on a cruise ship. He’s torn between storming over to give them a piece of his mind and laughing at the utter lunacy his life has become. Luckily, the Servitor saves him from making a decision. It fires three rounds of fuzzy-edged, purple orbs right at Steve and he dives across the room, coming up firing. 

He skips over a railing, seemingly planted in the middle of nothing but open space, and slinks to the wall. He trots around the edge of the room, flanking the Servitor. In profile, Steve can see the concave dip of the front side, where it launches its projectiles from. It doesn’t turn toward him, either because it’s stupid or his companions are being distracting. He assumes it’s the latter, if only because Dugan greatly enjoys taunting his enemies.

“I feel your pain,” Steve mutters, a phrase he’s heard from Morita too many times to count, and tries to focus his mind on creating that lightning feeling again. 

He gathers his Light, a process he’s become achingly familiar with from all his jumping practice, and tries to imagine the lightning crackling at Peggy’s fist, locking up his muscles, and sending his heart stampeding through his chest. The Light makes him feel invincible, buoyant and wonderfully warm. He tries to imagine the pleasant feelings turning sharp, prickling over his skin, but nothing comes of it. Frustration steals away his gathered Light, and Steve curses under his breath. 

“Hey,” he hisses, lifting his gun and backing away slowly. 

“Yes?” his Ghost chirps. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve got advice on how to shoot lightning out of my hands, huh?”

“I don’t even have hands,” the Ghost replies blithely. “And we don’t experience Light the same way, anyway.”

“We don’t?” Steve asks, more interested in his Ghost’s answer than the Servitor hovering just out of his sight. 

“Well, I think so,” his Ghost says. “I’ve never actually been human so it’s hard to tell.”

“Wow, insightful,” Steve mutters, peeking around the edge of a tall, metal box covered on one side with blackened flat screens and buttons. He has no idea why anyone could ever have needed this many buttons to push or panels to look at, but they do make for excellent cover. 

The Servitor is swishing slowly from side to side, surveying the area in Steve’s estimation. There’s a stretch of ten feet or so between where he is now and the next large support beam he can hide behind. He waits for the Fallen to turn away and lunges, rolling up to his feet behind the pillar. Behind him, he hears a mechanical moan ending in a high click. He leans just slightly around the edge to get a look, and sees the Servitor turned toward him. It moans again and immediately churns out a void orb. 

The pillar groans when it absorbs the energy shot, so Steve leaps from behind it and rushes along the curved wall toward Peggy and Dum Dum. He has to weave and dodge a few times to keep from getting hit, but eventually he makes it around to them. Peggy is reclining elegantly on a pile of junk covered with camouflage tarp, looking more at ease than anyone should be able to, and Dum Dum has his arms folded over his chest, tapping his toes impatiently.

“I didn’t hear any Servitors getting eviscerated by arc energy,” Dugan grunts. “Did you Peggy?”

“Not a single one,” she replies casually, making a show of checking her nails. The effect is a bit less patronizing with her gloves on, but Steve appreciates her effort nonetheless. 

“So why,” Dum Dum says, turning his head toward Steve, “are you back?”

“I got the impression you wanted me to use the lightning hands,” Steve replies, falsely earnest. “It wasn’t working out, so I came back to hear more of your life changing advice.”

Dum Dum barely holds back a laugh, aborted sound bursting between his lips. “Don’t you sass me, Steve-o.”

“He’ll remember!” Peggy chimes in, setting her voice low in a terrible but obvious mimic of Dugan’s. “And someday, when you least expect it, he’ll get you back.”

Dugan points a finger at her warningly. “Don’t you start too.”

“I can go shoot it, if you want,” Steve offers, gesturing toward the other side of the room with his rifle. 

“Steve,” Dum Dum sighs. “You’re no fun.”

“Go on,” Peggy says, waving him away. “I need to get back and there’s plenty more Fallen for you to practice on later.”

Steve nods, trotting back out to the more open center floor and dropping to one knee. The Servitor is bumbling along absently, almost as if it has completely forgotten why all of its companions are dead. Steve lifts his rifle and fires once. It turns toward him, bringing to bear the concave dip that is something like a face. Steve looks through his scope and opens fire, sending bullet after bullet into the lighter purple circle in the center, until eventually it wobbles and drops to the floor. It smashes into pieces, leaving behind a smoking, molten wreck. 

“Nailed it,” his Ghost whispers, and Steve laughs, dropping his chin to his chest. 

“Do not,” Steve warns through his laughter, “make that a thing.”

“I’m not making anything a thing,” his Ghost replies, affronted. “I can’t believe you’d accuse me of that.”

“I’m going to start keeping track,” Steve decides aloud, pushing himself to his feet and walking back toward the other Guardians. 

“Fine,” his Ghost retorts. “But you’ll be disappointed.”

“I doubt it,” Steve snorts. Dugan meets him at the doorway they’d first entered through, conspicuously alone. “Where’d Peggy go?” Steve greets him. 

“She wanted to get back to Saladin as soon as possible,” Dum Dum shrugs. “It’s you and me on the way back, kid.”

They backtrack through the building, quiet but not concerned with the possibility of attack. Their stroll back to camp is easy, full of fond teasing and banter. In the rosy, retiring sunlight, it’s a few hours of pleasant delight that Steve thinks he’ll cling to for years to come. It’s a stark contrast to the tense, organized chaos they get back to. One of the Titans guarding the entryway stops them, offering them advice in a quiet, carefully steady voice. 

“You both should speak with the leader of your Orders,” she says. The mark at her waist is decorated with the steadfast symbol of the Stoneborn Order. “Lord Saladin is mobilizing the entire Titan force.”

“Well shit,” Dum Dum mutters sideways to Steve. To the gatekeeper he says, “Thanks, we’ll do that.”

The easy atmosphere from their meandering walk back is destroyed, replaced by the militant intent with which they march through camp. Dugan breaks off eventually, headed for his own Order’s usual location, and Steve is left alone as he draws closer and closer to the Pilgrim Guard. He has to pass Saladin’s headquarters on the way, marveling at the mad scramble of people weaving around the man. He spots a slash of bright blue that may be Peggy’s cloak, but he can’t be sure. 

Pardack is deep in council with a smattering of other Titans, countenance dark with concern. Steve doesn’t recognize any of the others, save for the deep frown on Vell Tarlowe’s face as he approaches. Pardack turns slightly toward Steve, revealing the hands in front of his mouth, index fingers crossing his lips and other fingers twisted together. He looks deeply troubled. 

“You accompanied Carter on her scouting mission,” he addresses Steve. It’s not spoken as a question, yet the man waits, watching Steve consideringly. He nods, and Pardack sighs. “Then you are at least aware of the situation unfolding.”

Steve nods again, although he’s willing to bet he’s not as well informed as everyone else. The Fallen may have numbers, but there’s always been a certain level of disregard amongst his fellow Guardians. Falsworth seemed to take great joy in cracking jokes about the Fallen’s ineptitude. The obvious fear permeating the camp now does not speak to that supposed incompetence. 

“Lord Saladin is calling for more organized patrols for the time being,” Pardack says slowly. “You should not go out alone, young one, but you should go out. Your Ghost will keep you updated on new developments.”

“That’s it?” Steve asks, feeling like these orders don’t match up with the heightened fear swamping the area. 

Pardack nods, a small smile beginning to creep across his lips. “There’s an old saying, one you may recognize. ‘The best defense is a good offense.’ Saladin’s scouts have marked points of interest. The Ghosts will update those points as necessary.”

“Alright,” Steve mutters, brows drawn. He expected more regulation, someone watching the proceedings from above and directing as needed. Perhaps that’s what the Ghosts are doing, communicating with each other on the actions of their Guardians constantly. 

“You’re dismissed,” a voice sneers, and Steve looks up to see Vell Tarlowe waving him off with irritation clear on his face. Pardack’s eyes roll toward the sky, as if asking from above for patience, then he turns to Steve. 

“Go and rest for the night,” he says, far gentler than his underling. “Find a team to accompany you outside the walls tomorrow.”

Steve nods, turning away and traipsing slowly in the direction of his friends’ usual spot. He’s lost in thought, mulling over another strange turn of events and marveling at how little the constant confusion seems to get to him now. Someone grabs him by the arm, completely unexpectedly, and he startles violently. He yanks his arm free of the grip with as much force as he can muster, backpedaling away from his assailant. 

“Whoa, easy Steve, it’s just me.”

Steve blinks at Peggy, pale skin and dark hair and pursed lips. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Yes, I noticed,” she agrees, almost teasing. “What’s on your mind?”

She gestures for him to continue walking, and steps in beside him when he goes. “Just… Feeling lost, like usual.”

She turns a frown on him. “What’s got you confused?”

“Shouldn’t we be doing more than skirmishing? Patrolling the wall doesn’t seem like a long term solution to me,” he grumbles, exasperated. 

“I wouldn’t say it’s a long term solution,” Peggy says thoughtfully. “Rather, our numbers are quite low and we have a lot of enemies. More than you may realize, Steve. We have to strike at them as efficiently as possible, even if doing so makes us seem cowardly or overly cautious.”

“So we’re waiting for them to come to us? How’s that help?” Steve turns his hands out, palms up, and waits for Peggy to offer some sort of sense. 

“We can’t very well march on them,” she snorts, reaching out to grab one of his hands. She draws him close, curling her small fingers around his palm. “The Fallen are only one enemy we face, Steve, and they vastly outnumber us. If we go storming off to fight them, we leave the City open to attack from others.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow, resolutely ignoring the blush of warmth spreading over his cheeks from her touch. The conversation is too important to get distracted by the beautiful woman holding his hand. “Others? Other Fallen?”

“No,” Peggy says, shaking her head. “There are other species that would very much like to see the Traveler destroyed entirely. The Hive, for example, have taken the moon, so it’s only a matter of time before they come for us.”

“The Hive?” Steve groans, brow scrunching. Every time he thinks he’s beginning to make leeway in this new world, someone proves him decidedly wrong. 

“They are disturbing,” Peggy murmurs. “They remind me of insects, honestly, but clearly very intelligent. They serve the Darkness directly, as we do the Light, and that is...”

She trails off, eyes distant, and Steve wonders how long she’s been alive. She’s always appeared so brave and fearless to Steve. What horrors must exist to shake her this much?

“It frightens me,” she tells him, chin lifted in defiance. “I fear that Guardians may one day become like the Hive, the both of us lingering forever, fighting a war for entities we do not know and cannot understand.”

Steve looks at her, surprised and pleased with this show of trust. He’s not sure he deserves such open vulnerability from Peggy, but he intends to prove worthy of it. Her fear is troubling, though. He doesn’t know the fear, but like a dog takes cues from its master, he knows to take his cue from her. 

“Can Guardians die?” Steve asks, and realizing how absolutely ridiculous the questions sounds, given his own experience on the wrong end of a gun, adds, “I mean, of natural causes? Do we get older?”

Peggy smiles at him sadly and pats his hand. “No Guardian will die in their bed, Steve.”

“So we live until the Darkness takes us?”

“I don’t know,” Peggy says softly. “I’m not sure any of us know.”

Steve sighs, squeezing Peggy’s hand gently and pulling away. It’s certainly an issue to ponder, the life they’ve been returned to, but it’s not a pressing concern. More worrying are the Fallen banding together to destroy them, and Steve’s own lack of finesse with his Light. He chews on his lip thoughtfully, turning the problem of using arc energy over in his mind once again. There must be something he’s not doing right, something he keeps missing. 

“I imagine you’ll be going out tomorrow with Dum Dum?” Peggy hazards after a bit of silent walking. 

“Oh, uh,” Steve stutters, “yeah, I guess. Probably him and Gabe. They don’t trust me to go out on my own.”

“Steve,” she snorts, “I doubt they don’t trust you. It’s more probable that they want to do what they can to protect you.”

Steve grits his teeth against the agitation Peggy’s assurance sends rising in him. He knows she means well, but the idea that they see him as a hindrance, someone who needs protection, drives him crazy. Gritting his teeth, Steve resolves to figure out the abilities he should have, even if he must sneak outside the walls and practice during the night.

“Well, they shouldn’t have to babysit me out there either,” Steve grumbles. Peggy lays a small hand on his bicep. 

“You’re not a burden, Steve,” she says gently. “Don’t think less of yourself because you’re still learning.”

Steve exhales harshly, expelling the agitation with his breath. “I know, Peggy,” he tells her sincerely. Omitting his plan to practice instead of sleeping is probably something she’d reprimand him for, but he’d rather take the punishment later than be stopped now.

“Good,” Peggy says, patting his arm and stepping away. “You’ve more heart than most of us could ever dream of and I hope you know that.”

Steve blushes, tipping his chin and staring at the ground. “I’m nothing special, Peg.”

“You are,” she says, smile in her voice. “I can feel it.”

Steve would like to correct her, relieve her of whatever false notions she has about him, but a meaty hand smashes into his shoulder. 

“Steve-o!” Dugan cries joyfully, as if they hadn’t spent most of the day together. In a poor imitation of Peggy’s accent, he continues, “And Peggy, my dear, always a pleasure.” 

Steve shares a look of amused agony with Peggy, before choking back a laugh. Peggy holds out a hand, limply, and simpers, “Oh, darling, the pleasure is all mine.”

Dugan has the good graces to grasp Peggy’s hand and place a gentle kiss on her knuckles, which sends her into soft giggles. Dum Dum grins rakishly at his success, but Steve has to look away, blushing at Peggy’s glee. On this day alone, he’s seen her prowess in a fight and the naked dread she keeps close to her heart, but girlish giggling is too much. He hopes the darkening sky is enough to hide his reddening face. 

“So Steve,” Dugan says, shedding some of the jovial humor he so often wears and making Steve startle to attention, “I imagine the Pilgrim Guard is under the same orders as the rest of us?” 

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Steve asks, honestly curious. 

Dum Dum shrugs. “Some of the Stoneborn are under orders to stay here and defend the City at all costs. Chain and Firebreak sure as hell aren’t gonna stand around here if the fighting breaks out somewhere else, but Pilgrim Guard might.”

“I’m supposed to be out patrolling until further notice,” Steve says, adding with a shrug, “I don’t know about the rest of the Order though.”

“Well then,” Dugan puffs, crossing his arms and tucking his hands under his armpits. “Guess some of my brothers and sisters are in for a hell of a party if the City gets attacked in the next couple days.”

“All four Orders are going out?” Peggy asks. Dugan nods and she rubs her hands together, the material of her gloves making a sharp, rhythmic swishing noise. “Lord Saladin must be more worried than I’d thought.”

“So it’s not normal for all the Titan Orders to be following the same charge?” Steve clarifies. 

“It’s unusual for Saladin to give directions to the Orders at all,” Peggy replies hotly. “Under normal circumstances, he lets the Guardians act as they see fit and the Ghosts keep track of trouble areas.”

They finally break out of the cramped, maze-like pathways of the encampment and step onto the sprawling, gently waving plain between the City and the wall. Fires dot the landscape in the low light of late evening, and Dugan leads them on with great confidence. They find the boys unerringly, Falsworth’s Awoken eyes shining through the darkness, unaffected by the flickering firelight. 

“So we’re all heading out tomorrow, huh?” Gabe asks after greetings have been passed around, waving away smoke from Dum Dum’s freshly lit cigar. 

“Sounds like,” Morita grunts, arms folded across his chest as he leans back against the rusting carcass of some kind of car. It looks distinctly uncomfortable, but Morita seems determined to find it pleasant. 

“What about you, Peggy?” Steve asks, turning to look at her. She doesn’t belong to an organized group the way each of the Titans do, yet she seems to take orders from someone, if the missions that never seem to stop are any indication. 

“I’ll be out and about,” she says lightly, “but not for all the same reasons as you lot.”

“Peg’s our top secret spy,” Falsworth jokes. “If she tells you what she’s up to, she has to kill you.”

“Hardly,” Peggy laughs, waving away his words. “You Titans are showing up in force to stop any advanced Fallen parties encroaching on the wall and to…” She pauses, tapping a finger against the perfect red of her lips thoughtfully. “Remind the Fallen of what we’re capable of.”

“Meaning we’re supposed to scare the shit out of ‘em,” Dum Dum chuckles around his cigar. Morita refolds his arms, sighing loudly, and Dernier drags Gabe into conversation, purely in French. 

“Who do you take orders from?” Steve presses Peggy. He’s beginning to realize that his lack of understanding is at least in part due to the utter slipshod organization of the Guardian force in general, rather than his own inability to grasp the information in a timely manner. 

“Personally?” Peggy starts, continuing without further input from Steve. “It’s far more efficient to work with the Titans than on my own, so I take my orders directly from Saladin. Some of my fellows don’t agree, so they act on their own.”

“Why don’t you guys have a name?” Steve asks, making a sweeping gesture encompassing the camp. “Like we’re called Titans.”

“We don’t have any centralized leadership,” Peggy shrugs. “The Six Coyotes are trying, but as you say, we don’t even have a name for what we are. Many of us would rather it stay that way.”

“Why?” Steve mutters under his breath. He can’t imagine being left to his own devices in this mess. What would he have done if Dum Dum hadn’t taken him under his wing?

From here the conversation turns to fireteams for their patrols tomorrow, but Steve already knows Dum Dum and Gabe will want to keep an eye on him. They settle the matter quickly and with little issue, letting their talk devolve into discussion of gun specifications or friendly jibes. Steve’s a little lost with the first topic and feeling a little too surly for the second, so he lets the chatter wash over him. It’s a soothing cacophony, and his mind drifts easily to the problem of his inexperience. 

He knows what arc energy feels like crackling over his skin, thanks to his friends’ misguided attempts to help, but he’s never felt the power swell up from inside him. It’s a frustrating prospect, not being able to master something everyone else has. It sends his mind slinking back in time, when his lungs rattled and his spine ached and no amount of wishing let him keep up. 

He waits until the world is truly dark, only the dancing firelight and the soft glow of the Traveler breaking up the twilight. He pushes to his feet slowly, brushing phantom dirt off his armored thighs. 

“Well,” Steve yawns, “I’m going to call it a night.” He gestures to Dum Dum and Gabe. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Sunrise at the gate, Steve-o,” Dum Dum commands, gesturing with the glowing ember of his cigar. “Don’t be late.”

“Or else,” Gabe says, leaning into an exaggerated wink. Steve laughs, bids them all goodnight, and saunters off in the direction of the barracks. He keeps his cool, disappearing between buildings like he would any other night, then cutting out and trotting toward the gate. 

“Hey,” he mutters to his Ghost. “There aren’t any rules about going outside the wall at night, are there?”

“No,” his Ghost grumbles. “As long as you’re aware that I think this is a stupid idea.”

“You don’t even know what I’m planning,” Steve snorts. 

“Sure,” it says flatly. “You’ll probably want your helmet.”

Steve slows to a walk, holding his hands out until the air twinkles and his helmet appears. He twists it around in his hands, grinning absently, and pulls it on. “Thanks.”

“You’re so reckless,” his Ghost sighs. “And stubborn!”

“You picked me,” Steve points out, smirking. 

“I know,” the Ghost bemoans. “I regret it every day.”

* * *

Steve groans, plopping his butt on a rock and glaring down at his own gloved hands. Hours under the stars, lit only by the strange glow of the Traveler, straining to wrangle the power within himself that he doesn’t understand, and he’s no closer to success than before. The way everyone talks, it seems Steve’s figuring this out slower than most people and that catches at Steve’s pride in a way he hates. He’s always struggled to prove his worth to people, and he’d foolishly believed he wouldn’t face the same trials here. 

“Damn it,” he hisses, smashing his fist into the rock beside his hip. Pain sings through his bones, up to his elbow, and he has to bite his lips to keep down the gasp. He pulls his hand in close to his chest and leans forward, kicking his heel into the dirt with the concentrated force of frustration. 

“Breaking your hand doesn’t actually help in any way,” a voice says from behind him. Steve twists at the waist, less surprised than he probably ought to be to see the scout from the alley who’d saved Luis and Izzy. 

“Hey,” Steve says, feeling a smile breaking over his face. “You’re all about clandestine meetings, huh?”

“Maybe I wanted to be a spy in my last life,” the scout replies breezily, drifting like a shadow to stand adjacent to Steve. He gestures to Steve’s throbbing hand. “What’s that about?”

“Nothing,” Steve grunts, lowering his hand to his side nonchalantly. “Why do you care?”

The scout shrugs lazily. “I don’t really. It’s pretty dull out here tonight so I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Golly, you sure say the nicest things,” Steve drawls sarcastically. The scout folds his arms over his chest, watching Steve quietly for a few minutes. Steve stares straight ahead, alternating between ignoring the eyes on him and ignoring the pain in his hand. 

“You’re trying too hard,” the scout sighs eventually, deflating a bit. He waves his hand over Steve. “It’s not about forcing the lightning to bend to your will. You are the lightning.”

“That’s poetic,” Steve snarks, feeling his stomach twist with irritated discomfort. He doesn’t need this man to show up out of nowhere and save him all the time.

“Fine,” the scout scoffs, turning his back on Steve. “Have fun punching rocks.”

He stalks off, melting into the shadows almost immediately. Steve’s acutely aware of his lingering presence, a single blue dot moving steadily toward the edge of his radar. He’s being stupid, he knows. Too stubborn and too prideful to get help when he could really use it. He chews on his lip furiously, packing up his agitation and pushing it aside. 

“Wait,” he calls. The dot on his radar pauses and Steve heaves a sigh. “I don’t understand how to do this.” 

The scout slinks out of the darkness, seeming to appear right in front of Steve. “You’re thinking about it too hard,” the scout snorts. “Don’t think ‘I have to turn this Light into arc.’ It’s more of a feeling than a thought.”

“Right,” Steve snaps. “Because feeling like lightning is easier.”

“You could try void, instead,” the scout replies, shrugging. “I don’t particularly like the way that one feels, but it might be easier for you if you’re struggling.”

“You know how to use void?” Steve mutters, thinking back to the inferno this man had unleashed that night probably no more than a week ago. Peggy, too, can use the golden gun but her second energy is arc, a sparking blade of lightning. Shouldn’t his second option be arc too, rather than void? 

“Yeah, it’s not that hard,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly. “All three energies are a,” he pauses, continuing with sarcasm dripping from his voice, “gift of the Light.”

Steve watches him for a moment. “A gift that keeps on giving?”

He snorts a laugh, curling all but his index finger to make a gun and firing a pretend shot straight at Steve. He grins, helplessly charmed by this silly bit of mime. No matter how charmed, however, Steve wants to know more about the three energies the Light manifests in.

“All three energies stem from the Light,” he says slowly, watching the scout for a reaction. He nods easily, so Steve pushes on. “But Guardians can only use two of the three energies? And different ones for each…” He stops, waving his hand around vaguely. Each type of Guardian? Class? He doesn’t know how to talk about any of this, so lacking in the vocabulary of the time. 

“The idea that Guardians are restricted to two energies is bullshit,” the scout replies evenly. “I can use void just as well as you can-”

“I can’t,” Steve interrupts. The scout shakes his head disbelievingly, but continues on unperturbed. 

“And Titans can use solar just fine.” He perks up a bit then, suddenly, hands waving a bit and voice tipped higher. “You should see the Warlocks who can use arc! They’re so intimidating.”

“Warlocks?” Steve asks, head tipping to one side uncertainly.

“Yeah, uh, the ones obsessed with the Traveler?” The influx of energy in his voice and posture drains away noticeably, and Steve finds himself missing it immediately.

“Oh,” Steve mutters. “With the robes. They’re called Warlocks?”

“Yes,” the scout says incredulously, rocking back on his heels. “Did you not know that?”

“No,” Steve says slowly. 

“Jesus, ain’t that just like a Titan,” he grumbles. “If it doesn’t come down through the chain of command, it’s not worth knowing.”

Steve would like to point out that the chain of command hasn’t told him a goddamn thing yet, to his chagrin, but he doesn’t. “And what are you called? Titans, Warlocks, and?”

He shrugs. “We don’t really have any central organization. There’s the Six Coyotes… Or Saladin refers to all of us as his scouts.”

“You’re not all scouts though,” Steve points out. He’s seen plenty of the cloaked figures drifting around the edges of everyone else, apparently perfectly happy not to be included. 

“Saladin’s holding a grudge,” he says. “Peggy likes the term ‘Hunter,’ if you’re that concerned about it.”

“Hunter,” Steve says, tasting the title. It sounds dangerous, a little solitary. “And what about you?”

“Hunter is fine with me,” he shrugs, disinterestedly. 

“No, I meant,” Steve starts, stopping himself and trying again. “Everyone calls you ‘Sarge’.”

He tips his chin up, folding his arms over his chest. “Wow, do they?” he wonders sarcastically. “I had no idea.”

“That’s not a name.”

“No, it’s not,” he returns evenly. “But it’s what everyone calls me.”

“Okay,” Steve nods, slowly. They watch each other for a moment, helmets hiding their features. “If we can use all three energies, then why does everyone insist I’ve only got two to learn?”

Sarge shrugs. “There’s an order of Titans who use solar almost exclusively. The Sunbreakers.”

“Sunbreakers?” Steve asks, leaning subconsciously toward the other man. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, sounding bored. “They don’t always get along with the current leadership.”

“Saladin? Why?”

“Saladin,” Sarge nods, “and Zavala.”

“Oh,” Steve mumbles, mind churning. Steve doesn’t know Zavala really at all, but from what he’s heard, the man doesn’t sound unfairly difficult. He lets his mind return to the more interesting tidbit. He’s beginning to understand that he might never truly _know_ what the Light really is, but knowing that any Guardian can use the three energies makes more sense. There must be a reason, he supposes, for that information to be kept secret.

The scout shifts audibly, cloth creaking softly against his hard armor. Worried he might depart before Steve is ready for him to, he grasps at the first thing he thinks will hold him here.

“So Sarge,” Steve urges, letting the teasing enter his voice. “I have to _be_ the lightning?”

“Fuck you,” Sarge says tiredly. “You’re trying to control arc energy and it’s not going to happen. Channel it.”

“I don’t understand, though,” Steve growls, frustrated with his continuing confusion. “What am I channeling?”

Sarge huffs, waving his hand through the air. “What do you do? When you’re trying to call up arc?”

Steve makes a face, mentally rolling through the steps he usually takes. “I focus my Light,” he says slowly, preemptively embarrassed about whatever misstep he’s about to admit to. “And focus on the… tension I guess? The way it stings.” He trails off uncertainly, watching from behind the smooth, blank shield of his helmet. 

Sarge taps his fingers against his hip methodically, one-two-three-two-one. “You ever… Walk around on a carpet with socks on? Or rubbed a balloon against your hair?”

Steve nods, remembering his mother’s thin fingers on his chin as she’d rubbed a balloon against his head to make his hair stand on end. He remembers the tingle and the bite when he’d reached for his mother and the spark had snapped between them. 

“It’s that feeling,” Sarge tells him. “It’s the build up. The anticipation. Whoever you’re aiming for gets the sting. You’re just the conduit the energy discharges through.”

“Just like that, huh?” Steve snorts, but he gathers up the advice greedily. He feels his Light stir within him, and casts his mind back to the balloon. He recalls the squeal of his mother’s fingers against the rubbery skin, the give of it against his scalp, the crackle when she’d lifted the balloon away and his hair had risen with it. It had felt like something was touching him, a barely concealed urge to move woven into his thin, blond hair. The way the feeling had vanished, all at once, when he’d touched his mother and unwittingly sent the tiny shock through her. 

He feels it now all around him, the phantom touch of electricity waiting for a way out. He tips a look toward Sarge, and unprompted, the scout sidles up to him, fingertips outstretched. Steve lifts his hand slowly, feeling the undeniable tingle skittering across his skin. Their fingers are nearly touching when Steve’s heart slams into overdrive and a tiny bolt of white hot light rears up out of his knuckles, shimmies down between two of his fingers, and stretches across open air to Sarge’s fingers. Steve gapes down out as his hand stupidly while his Light settles placidly. 

Sarge jerks back, shaking the sting out of his hand. “There,” he says, sounding genuinely pleased. “Just like that.”

It’s not enough, not nearly, but it’s a start. Steve finally understands what everyone’s been trying to tell him. “That was it!” he laughs, buoyant and relieved. “I really can do it.”

“Yeah,” Sarge says, “it’s real easy once you get a feel for it.”

Steve looks at him--the smooth gold plating over his eyes, shadowed by his heavy hood in the unnatural light of the Traveler and the blue-green camouflage kerchief covering the lower half of his helmet--and is nearly knocked off his feet by a surge of gratitude. Sarge may be frustratingly obtuse and a bit biting, but he’d taken the time to help Steve finally figure out how to make arc energy. He’s not all bad, Steve thinks. An asshole, certainly, but not bad. 

“Thank you,” Steve tells him, as genuine as he can manage. “I’ve been trying to figure this out for days.”

Sarge takes a few steps back, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, “you spend all your time with Titans. None of them were gonna be smart enough to explain it to you.”

“Hey!” Steve complains, barely holding his laughter in check. Sarge shrugs again and slinks into the darkness. 

“Get home safe, Titan,” he calls from the shadows. Steve snorts at the phrase, annoyance rushing back to him with the memory. 

“My name is Steve!” he shouts after him, although he knows he won’t get an answer. “And I’m barely outside the wall anyway,” he grumbles, kicking his toe into the dirt like a child.

He spends the better part of the night recalling the breathless, tingling anticipation he’d found with Sarge standing watch over him. Though he manages to call up the feeling just under his skin, there are no more lightning shows in store for him before he has to scramble back to camp. The sky is just beginning to brighten, pink and orange cutting through the purple twilight, when Steve skitters into the mess, completely forgoing sleep. 

He gets a mug of a strange, spicy tea that he’s taken a liking to and a massive, moist blueberry muffin before situating himself in the corner. Gabe and Dum Dum will probably look for him in the barracks, first, but he wants to be ready when they eventually find him here. If all goes well, he’ll be able to convince them that he looks tired and weary from nerves, rather than a night spent trying to create lightning. 

Steve watches the other Guardians in the room shuffle around each other. Although there’s plenty of food available (more than Steve could ever have imagined in his past life), no one seems overly interested in it. Most of his fellows choose small items--a biscuit with jam, a piece of fruit, these mini egg pies that are both endearing and delicious--despite the hard work they do in heavy armor. 

It’s a strange concept, not to feel hunger, and one Steve hasn’t entirely made himself comfortable with yet. His Ghost insists that the Light sustains them, that they don’t rely on such a simple, human necessity. It makes him wonder if he can even truly call himself human, as his outward appearance would suggest. 

He takes a bite of his blueberry muffin, the dough warm and buttery, the blueberries sweet and tacky. He likes being in the mess hall, watching other Guardians sit around small plates of food, nibbling and chatting. It makes him feel better to know there are others like him who are clinging so desperately to an obsolete ritual of their first life. They only eat now for pleasure or from habit. 

Steve’s muffin is nothing but crumbs when Dum Dum comes strolling into the mess. He pauses in the doorway, surveilling the room with hands on hips, until he spots Steve. He brightens visibly, making a beeline for Steve with an uncontrollable bounce to his step. He marches right up to Steve’s table and sinks into a seat across from him, grinning around an unlit cigar. 

“The sun’s risen kiddo,” he announces, his booming voice carrying across the room. Steve casts a horrified look at the nearest tables, where other Guardians have turned to watch the Dum Dum Show, and slouches into his seat with embarrassment. 

“Has it?” he mumbles, hiding behind his mug. 

Dum Dum leans one arm on the table and points at Steve with the other. “You’re late,” he says easily. “You know Gabe hates it when you’re late.”

“If I’m late,” Steve says, taking a sip of his lukewarm tea, “aren’t you late too?”

Dugan snorts, reaching across the table to pluck Steve’s mostly empty mug away and scooping up his plate. He carries both toward the back corner of the mess, dropping them off to be cleaned, and jerks a thumb toward the door. Heaving a theatrically dramatic sigh, Steve shoves himself up and follows him to the door. 

The sky, as they trudge toward the gate, is soft, pastel orange brushed with pink. It sets the thin patches of snow on the ground aflame, glowing against the deep brown of dirt and dead vegetation. It’s almost pretty enough to distract him from the hulking, white carcass hanging just over his right shoulder. The Traveler sits unnaturally in the sky, the newly birthed city underneath straining up as if to brush against the cracked, crumbling belly of it. 

“Steve-o?” Dum Dum asks firmly, clearly not the first time he’s attempting to grab Steve’s attention. 

“What?” Steve asks quickly, blinking away the disquiet the Traveler stirs in him. Dum Dum just frowns, twisting to follow Steve’s look. 

“The Traveler’s really something, huh?” Dugan asks, turning a knowing smirk on Steve. He nods weakly, forcing a chuckle out of his throat. 

“Sure is,” he agrees. Something of questionable intent, definitely.They both pull their helmets on as the gate comes into view, Gabe a tiny, toy-like figure at the base of it from this distance. Everyone is all business when they reach Gabe, passing along greetings efficiently before heading out into the Cosmodrome. Dum Dum leads by default, following his Ghost’s directions.

There’s something heavy about the outing, noticeably different from the easy fun of their practice games. They pass a few teams of Titans, trudging determinedly toward their own goal, and one of the cloaked scouts. She’s standing on the spine of a busted plane, sniper rifle at least as long as she is tall aimed into the distance. As they pass, she pulls away from her scope to address them.

“There’s a Captain out by the scraggly tree,” she informs them, gesturing the tip of her gun. “I can’t get a clean shot at him.” Embarrassment colors her tone.

“We’ll swing by and get him,” Gabe reassures her, and Dum Dum lifts a hand in an absent wave as they continue on. The Captain is a little off their planned course, so they drift, taking their time to creep up on the Fallen without alerting him. They stay low, ducked behind sparse cover and moving at a snail’s pace. 

As they draw close, they can see the Captain is flanked by a couple Dregs and a Vandal. They’re chattering at each other, clearly unaware of the approaching Titans. They lie prone, crawling through dead grass and thin, icy patches of snow on their bellies. Dum Dum stops and Gabe shimmies up along his left hip, so Steve takes his right. 

“Hey Steve,” Dugan whispers, glee evident in his voice despite the volume. He twists his head toward Steve, even though neither of them can see the other’s facial expression. It seems a strange habit, in Steve’s mind. “Pay attention. You might learn something.”

Steve nods, but Dum Dum doesn’t wait for the affirmation. He leaps to his feet, gun stowed across his shoulders, and rushes forward. He’s probably a good twenty feet out from the gathered Fallen when he jumps into the air, body bowing backwards, and a rush of blue-white energy engulfs him. The Fallen shriek and scramble when they notice him, but they don’t clear out fast enough. Dugan lands amidst them, swinging his fists down into the ground with tremendous force. 

The ground shudders, clumps of dirt bouncing even as far back as Steve and Gabe are lying. Lightning cracks out of Dum Dum’s hands, skittering forward across the ground. It snaps and pulses, spreading no farther than ten feet in front of him. Dugan stands up triumphantly, flicking a smarmy salute back at them. There’s nothing to indicate the Fallen had even been there to begin with. 

“Let’s wreak some havoc, boys,” Dum Dum crows.


	5. A Titan’s Guide to Field Medicine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Glossary**
> 
> _Guardian_ : A reanimated corpse-turned-specialized soldier tasked with the defense of the last city on Earth and exploration of the lost remnants of humanity's Golden Age throughout the solar system.  
>  _Titan_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on strength and power.  
>  _Hunter_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on speed and finesse.  
>  _Warlock_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on... "space magic."  
>  _Traveler_ : A mysterious, city-sized sphere hovering close to Earth's surface which grants superhuman abilities to Guardians.  
>  _Ghost_ : A levitating artificial intelligence used by Guardians.  
>  _HUD_ : "Heads Up Display"  
>  _Fireteam_ : A small squad composed of 2 to 6 Guardians.  
>  _Cosmodrome_ : A shipyard located in Old Russia that once served as a vital link to space.

_"Our enemies may be deadly and merciless, but so are you."_  
—A rallying cry for the Titans

* * *

Steve can just make out Gabe on the horizon, and Dum Dum has a running commentary going via their Ghosts. Steve sighs, looking over the sweeping terrain. There’s a promising group of busted transport trucks clustered around a stack of crates. He starts in that direction, kicking up fresh snow, and calls up his Ghost with one hand. Dum Dum’s chatter cuts out.

“Guardian.”

“So,” Steve mutters, “what is a shock core, exactly?”

“The Fallen use them to contain the arc energy they use in their guns and swords,” his Ghost supplies. “They’re, uh… just cylinders?”

“Right,” Steve mutters, dropping his hand and effectively dismissing his Ghost. Dum Dum’s voice filters back in as he lifts his gun and creeps up to the abandoned vehicles, swinging around the open end of the box truck. He’s met with a group of quietly chattering Dregs and a Vandal, standing over them. He opens fire, managing to hit three of the Dregs before the Vandal storms him. 

It throws its weight at Steve’s shoulders, knocking him onto his back and trapping his gun against his chest. It rears up, brandishing a wicked dagger, and Steve focuses on the tingling feeling of anticipation he’d discovered just a few nights ago. He holds his breath, swinging his fist with all his might. There’s a sharp zing of power along his fingers, followed by the shuddering force of his hit connecting. In a blink, electricity explodes from the point of contact, and the Vandal’s whole body jitters before collapsing. 

Steve groans, shoving the corpse off of him and sitting up slowly. He holds his hand out before him, amazed. That’s certainly more than the little shock that’d passed between him and Sarge. He smiles to himself, pushing to his feet and checking the truck. There’s a single Dreg, cowering in the back. When it sees him, it lets loose an unholy shriek and lunges, short knife at the ready. Steve swings again, and despite the lack of arc power, the creature drops at his feet. 

Unprompted, his Ghost coalesces at his shoulder, and directs a wide blue fan of light at the corpse. The light passes over it once, before settling on a simple, small cylinder built into the hilt of the Dreg’s blade. 

“ _That_ ,” his Ghost announces, “is a shock core.”

* * *

“Oh, this is exciting,” Steve’s Ghost chirps. “Instead of collecting things, we get to shoot things!”

“Because we never shoot things when we’re collecting things,” Steve grumbles. Gabe pats him on the back absently, attention turned toward the cave entrance looming 100 yards ahead. 

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Dugan jokes.

“I haven’t seen a bed in six days,” Steve mutters. Gabe hums in agreement, switching his scout rifle for a sniper and looking down the scope. 

“Well geez, Grumps,” Dum Dum laughs. “What’s gotten into you?”

If he were being honest, there are a lot of things bothering him. They’ve been pushing hard for days and Steve is bone weary. The fighting feels endless, a new crop of Fallen rising up each time they clear an area. Coupled with the fact that Steve’s been chewed out 13 different times for not firing at unsuspecting targets, he’s feeling a little defensive. He knows the Fallen would gladly kill him in his sleep, if given the chance, but he can’t shake feeling wrong about turning the tables. 

“Nothing,” Steve grits out. “Is this the area we’re supposed to be clearing?”

“Mmm, but,” Gabe murmurs, “I think that cave has multiple exits.” He lowers his rifle, turning toward them. “We’re probably going to have to split up again.”

“We can run in and hit ‘em all with some lightning,” Dum Dum suggests merrily. 

Steve gnaws on his lip before speaking up. “What if,” he pauses when both of his companions turn to him expectantly. He clears his throat and stands up straighter. “What if Gabe and I post up at the exits, and Dum Dum flushes them out with the lightning?”

It’s a simple strategy, but in the past few days, Steve has come to realize that, while both of his companions are very capable, neither of them is much for planning. If Dum Dum had his way, lightning would be the answer to every problem. 

“Sure,” Gabe shrugs. “Sounds like a good plan to me.”

Dugan laughs, stepping in to throw an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Good man,” he barks. “I’ll bring the ruckus and you two can clean up the stragglers.”

They each heft their gun of choice and Steve heaves a breath, smiling hesitantly. “Let’s just hope it works,” he whispers, following them out to scope the area.

* * *

Steve steps cautiously, but the rusted grate gives way under his weight. Before he can so much as yelp, he’s plummeting through the darkness. Gabe and Dum Dum yell after him, voices projected by his Ghost, but there’s nothing they can do while he’s dropping. 

His Ghost appears, directing a beam of light straight down and Steve twists and contorts to dodge sheared off piping and jagged concrete blocks. During one such maneuver, his elbow catches on a twisted metal bar bent out of the wall. His arm snaps up unnaturally, gun slamming into the wall and out of his grip. Pain explodes through his right side, hot and sharp, and Steve’s throat closes up around a scream. Biting his tongue, Steve gathers the limp, tattered remains of his limb in close and blinks away tears. Despite the pain, he needs to focus on the rest of his fall. 

He catches the sheen of grimy water illuminated by his Ghost and shoves the pain aside to focus on his Light. Breathing through short, shuddering breaths, Steve’s descent slows almost to a stop, but the effort drains his well of Light faster than he’d anticipated. His store of power sputters away to nothing, and he begins gaining speed once more. He free falls the last 15 feet, but the jolt through his ankles and knees is nothing compared to his arm. 

He finds himself in a pitch black, cement walled room, filled to mid-shin with oil-slick water. He pivots slowly, taking in the room bit by bit as his Ghost lights it. There’s a bank of old fashioned computers covering an entire wall, still far more complex than Steve can reasonably comprehend, but the room is otherwise empty. There’s a single doorway, the door itself shredded and hanging drunkenly from its hinges. 

“Okay,” Steve whispers shakily. “Okay.” He regards his Ghost. “Can you connect me with Dum Dum or Gabe?”

“Of course,” his Ghost nods, and its symbol appears in the top corner of his HUD. 

“Hey,” Steve says, injecting as much bravado as he can into his voice. 

“Steve!” Dum Dum exclaims, relief heavy in his voice. “You alright? You got respawn down there?”

Steve looks to his Ghost, but the little AI shakes side to side. “Doesn’t look like it,” Steve sighs. “I smashed my arm pretty bad, but otherwise I’m okay.”

“Shit,” Dum Dum mutters lowly. “Just stay put if you can. The rescue mission is already underway.”

Steve laughs, wincing as it jostles his arm. “I’ll be waiting,” he says, sloshing through the water toward the old technology. The icon on his HUD disappears and he’s left in silence again. Hyper aware of his arm, Steve carefully crawls onto the wide, flat control panel and sits with his legs drawn up to his chin. 

The darkness in this underground basement is like a physical thing, suffocating and weighty. He barely breathes, listening intently to a distant, steady drip and a sort of pulsing whisper he can’t place. His Ghost follows the direction he’s facing, pointing its beam of light wherever Steve looks, but the swinging light puts Steve on edge, certain he’s seeing movement out of the corner of his eye. He’s consumed by his need to watch his radar, eyes straining to keep the world outside his armor in focus too. 

The dripping sound drones on, falling into the background with its steady regularity, but the sporadic rise and fall of the whisper frays his nerves. Panting shallowly against his nerves, Steve wracks his brain for what the sound reminds him off. _Schlit… Schlit… Schlit…_ Like the slow, assured way the butcher had sharpened his knives, Steve thinks. Or the way a blade might sound scraping against a Guardian’s plated armor. 

There’s a splash, and movement on his radar, and Steve shoots to his feet before anything else can register. Pain sings through his arm and he chokes, gasping through it. 

“Hey, hey,” a familiar voice says. “Take it easy, Titan.”

Steve has to blink away a fresh round of tears before he can focus on the Guardian standing in the middle of the room. He sinks slowly into a crouch, the delicate plastic of the control panel cracking under his boots. 

“Sarge?” Steve wheezes, incredulous. Absurdly, Steve finds himself concerned for the man’s cloak, dragging through the water behind him. 

Sarge nods, stepping forward slowly, hands held out from his sides where they’re easy to see. 

“You okay? Sounded like you were panicking,” he says lowly. 

“Fine,” Steve mutters. He points accusingly with his good arm. “Where did you come from?”

“I was around,” he shrugs. “It’s okay if you were scared,” he continues, as if Steve hadn’t answered his first question at all. “It happens, when you’re alone in the Darkness. Once we’re isolated from the Light, we start to get a little bonkers.”

“Bonkers?” 

“Crazy, nuts, mad. Take your pick,” Sarge replies. “C’mon, there’s a lot of stairs between us and the ground floor.”

Steve forces himself to breathe deep, slipping carefully off the massive computer and into the water. His arm swings sickeningly, making Steve’s stomach roil. Sarge heaves a put upon sigh, pulling a short knife from his belt and stabbing it through his cloak. He cuts a large swathe free and marches to Steve’s side. 

“Hold still,” he grumbles, carefully manipulating Steve’s wrecked limb until he can bundle it in the tattered cloth. He ties it carefully around Steve’s neck, immobilizing it. 

Steve chews over his concern, before deciding he needs to ask. “Do you think they can fix this?” He’s not sure who “they” are, but he’s sure there must be someone. 

“Yeah,” Sarge grunts, lifting his gun and carefully pushing aside the ravaged door. “When we get topside, ask Dugan for his special brand of first aid. That’ll fix you right up.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you shot me in the face,” Steve mutters, swinging one arc covered fist at a Dreg. 

“But your arm works great now, don’t it?” Dum Dum laughs, the sound tinny through their Ghosts and the low, distant echo of his true voice thrumming from somewhere across the vast room. 

“You _shot_ me,” Steve repeats vehemently. “In the _face_.”

“That was two days ago, Steve-o,” Dum Dum groans, voice punctuated by the steady fire of his gun. “You need to let it go.”

“I never expected Sarge to haze the new guy,” Gabe adds wonderingly. 

“Someone had to,” Sarge mutters and his sniper rifle cracks so loudly Steve’s teeth ache. A Shank next to him explodes into bits and Steve sighs. 

“I don’t need your help,” he reiterates for the umpteenth time, kicking the smoldering metal shell of the recently obliterated drone. 

“I wasn’t helping,” Sarge denies, haughty. Steve wishes he knew where the Hunter was hiding so he could offer him a few choice gestures.

“Sure,” Steve snorts flatly. He stuffs the barrel of his shotgun into the chest of an approaching Vandal and fires. He likes Sarge, he really does, but the guy is constantly butting in to do things for Steve, likes he’s some sort of damsel in distress. It’s annoying, especially here, where death is just a mild inconvenience and resurrection is a simple five second wait period away. 

“You weren’t so stubborn when you were out punchin’ rocks,” Sarge fires back, words punctuated by the sharp snap of his rifle somewhere in the distance. 

Steve peers surreptitiously at the rafters, trying to spot Sarge so he can flip him off. The Dregs swarm around him, but even their shock blades sputter and skip harmlessly off his armor now. He’d been assured, multiple times, that his Light would continue to expand the more he used it, but he hadn’t believed it before. As another Dreg swings at him and promptly collapses under little more than a sucker punch, Steve finds he may be willing to believe now. 

The sniper rifle cracks again, and Steve squints toward the sound, hoping for a glimpse. “Where the hell is he,” Steve mutters under his breath, endlessly glad his Ghost doesn’t project his quiet mumblings to his teammates.

He lets the arc energy build in his fist, and punches an incoming Vandal, almost nonchalant. For a brief moment after the arc energy discharges, Steve feels hollowed out, as if all his Light has been poured into the effort of creating lightning, but the moment always passes. He imagines his Light as a liquid, contained in a bowl under a leaky roof. When he uses his Light, the bowl is emptied, but it only remains so until the first drops from the leaky roof start filling it up again. Although, given the way these Dregs are little more annoying than gnats, perhaps he should upgrade the bowl to a bucket. 

The sniper howls through the room again, and Steve twists slowly. 

“Stop looking for me and pay attention,” Sarge grumbles, followed by a wolf whistle from Dum Dum. 

“Can’t keep your eyes off a Sarge, Steve-o?” Dum Dum laughs. “Can’t say I blame ya. The way he uses that sniper…” 

“S’like goddamn magic,” Gabe chimes in. Steve flushes, hot with embarrassment and nerves. It’s not like _that_ at all, but their good natured joking has a thick swell of shame and anger breaking over him. 

“Go to hell,” he barks and gladly throws himself into a cluster of Fallen.

* * *

“Is it just me,” Steve asks, skidding down a steep embankment after a fleeing Stealth Vandal, “or are they leading us somewhere?”

“Oh, probably,” Dum Dum hums, landing with a heavy thud a few feet in front of Steve and tumbling gracelessly down the hill. 

“Yep. They’re gonna get us down in this ravine where we have less maneuverability and then they’re gonna call in the big guns,” Gabe muses from his place bringing up the rear. 

“That’s probably exactly what they’re going to do,” Steve says, although he knows his friends are joking. They just don’t take the fighting as seriously as Steve feels they should. 

They finally scramble to the bottom of the hill, Dum Dum rolling to his feet with practiced elegance, and trot cautiously after the Vandal. The gaping mouths of caves line the canyon walls, and bright, beady eyes peer down at them. Steve’s mind supplies pictures of gladiators standing in the arena, fighting to the death under the hungry eyes of the masses. 

Steve opens his mouth to congratulate his teammates on rushing headlong into yet another clusterfuck, but the ground starts rumbling before he can get the words out. All around them, the gathered Fallen have begun stamping their feet, waving their arms and growling out a rhythmic chant. 

The Fallen standing before a cave to their left part suddenly, clearing a path to allow something through. 

“That’s a big one,” Gabe announces easily, which sends Dum Dum into a fit of hysterics. 

“What the fuck,” Steve gapes. The creature has to stoop to exit the cave, and when it straightens up, silence falls through the ravine. It throws its four massive arms up, brandishing a shrapnel launcher that looks more like a peashooter in its grip, and releases a deafening roar. All around it, the smaller Fallen hoot and chatter, cheering for their chosen champion. 

“What’s that real old movie?” Dum Dum asks, motioning to snap his fingers even though he’s wearing gloves. “You know, ‘two men enter, one man leaves’?”

“What the fuck,” Steve mutters disapprovingly. 

“Can’t help ya,” Gabe shrugs, shaking his head. 

“Pah,” Dum Dum barks, “what good are you two?”

There’s static building in the air around them, and Steve knows what Dum Dum is going to do long before the man actually leaps into action. He hurtles through the air at the enormous Fallen, lightning crackling along his limbs, and slams into the ground at its feet. The Dregs and Vandals surrounding the monster are obliterated, but the thing itself peers down at Dugan like he’s a particularly disgusting bug. 

“He should know better,” Gabe sighs, hefting his gun. “Archons don’t take kindly to being tickled with lightning.”

The Archon, if Gabe is to be believed (and he is the most believable of the bunch, in Steve’s opinion), rears up and swings both of its right arms down at Dugan. The blow is so intense that it sends shockwaves through the canyon, rocking Steve back onto his heels. A message pops up on the lower corner of his HUD, calmly informing him that a member of his fireteam is down. Steve thinks that’s a bit of an understatement. “Squashed like a roach” would be much more fitting. 

“We’re gonna have to revive his ass, you know,” Gabe says seriously. “I bet my left fucking arm there’s just enough Darkness here that his Ghost can’t self revive.”

“That’s true,” Steve’s Ghost informs him quietly. “You’ll need to manually revive your downed teammate. Us Ghosts need more Light to activate it ourselves.”

“Great,” Steve drags out, gripping his gun tightly. “So?”

“My plan was to kill everything and not die,” Gabe shrugs. 

Steve’s mind races through possibilities before he sighs. “Alright, just. Don’t go near the Archon. If it comes after one of us, the other should try to get to Dum Dum. We’ll take out the little guys, then focus fire on the big one. Okay?”

“Peachy,” Gabe huffs before expending a burst of Light to leap a good 100 feet away from Steve. Putting distance between them gives the Archon more targets and deters any of the Fallen from trying to take them both out in one fell swoop. 

The Dregs and Vandals are easy enough to deal with, although they’re still worrying in such large numbers. Steve keeps moving steadily, firing as quickly as he can. He takes a few hits, the shielding on his armor sputtering under the pressure but ultimately holding. 

Most troubling is the Archon, still standing over Dum Dum’s final resting place. The massive alien is simply surveying at the moment, but its presence alone is enough to drive the smaller Fallen to new levels of ferociousness. Steve lets his Light build inside him, refusing to expend it on a punch, and carefully strafes around the hoard, keeping the Archon in his line of sight.

When most of the ravine has cleared, Steve chances a look over at Gabe. The other man has mirrored Steve’s movement, doubling the distance between them. The Archon is staring down at him, arms moving in sharp, angry spurts. This is their shot, and they both know it. 

“Alright, Steve,” Gabe says, voice caught up by his Ghost and sent along to Steve’s. “Dum Dum’s all yours.”

Steve sees the muzzle flash from his gun before the sound reaches him, Gabe backstepping hastily. The Archon roars, shaking the canyon, and charges down the hill. Trusting Gabe to hold out, Steve bolts, racing over uneven terrain for Dum Dum. As he goes, he hears the distant chatter of approaching Dregs - reinforcements. 

“Shit,” he hisses, skidding to a stop over Dugan’s expanded Ghost. The small center core is blown wide, a sphere of perfectly translucent blue light that the shell is almost comically too small to enclose. “Another wave incoming,” he shouts, putting the Ghost’s revive function into motion. 

“Fuck,” Gabe breathes. Steve catches a glance of Gabe sprinting away from the Archon, turning and firing only once he’s put a wide gap between them. The steady clatter of his gun echoes between the steep rock walls on either side of them. 

With a flash of light and a woosh, Dum Dum’s Ghost disappears, exiting to whatever plane of existence they move to when they’re not physically present here. Steve doesn’t bother looking for Dum Dum, knowing his Ghost will resurrect him in the nearest safe location, and instead trots back toward the cave he’d heard Dregs gathering in. 

“Hey, had some time to think just now,” Dum Dum’s voice breaks through their radio silence, relaxed and casual. 

“You think of how to kill this son of a bitch?” Gabe snaps, obviously harried. 

“What? Nah,” Dum Dum replies absently. “That movie? It’s called Thunderdome. Fitting right?”

Gabe lets loose a string of truly inspired curses, and Steve groans. “Dum Dum,” he snaps, “go take some of the heat off Gabe. I’m going to clear these adds real quick.”

“Right-o, Cap’n,” Dugan chirps, and Steve diverts all his attention to the commotion around the corner. He takes a deep breath, pulls his Light around him like a second set of armor, and dives into the dimly lit cave. He’s firing before he’s even consciously acknowledged the enemies within, but he’s still knocked for a loop when a Captain growls in his left ear. Bolstered by his hesitation and the presence of their betters, the Dregs swarm him, slashing at the weak points in his armor with their shock daggers. 

The whine of the Captain’s shrapnel launcher cuts through the din of the Dregs and Steve feels a chill rush down his spine. He gathers all his strength and shoves the Dregs back, calling up the prickling tension of arc energy. It builds in his hand and travels up his arm, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The feeling grows through his shoulders and down into his gut, and Steve knows, suddenly and instinctively, exactly what to do. 

He spots the Captain and rushes forward, the Dregs flowing after him, caught in his wake. He leaps straight into the air and electricity bursts from under his skin, whiting out his vision. As he descends, he swings his arms down with all the force he can and lightning explodes out of the earth under his hands, skittering away from him in a circle and chewing through the Fallen. He blinks away the blue-white light clouding his vision, jolting with the aftershocks of energy exploding around his feet, and surveys the room. 

A single Dreg stares at him from the corner, eyes red hot and flashing in the dying pulse of Steve’s attack. It lets out a scream and fires a triplet of arc slugs from its pistol, spraying across his abdomen. Steve huffs, annoyed and drained, and levels his rifle, taking the Dreg down with one well placed headshot. 

An obnoxious whoop that could only belong to Dum Dum breaks through his strange daze, and Steve stumbles back out into the light just in time to see the Archon crumple to the ground. Dum Dum lowers a massive rocket launcher from his shoulder and starts chattering excitedly at Gabe, their conversation filtering back into Steve’s awareness. 

Steve trudges down into the belly of the valley, scooping up ammo and the crystalline schematics called engrams that the more scholarly among their ranks like to study. As he draws near, Dum Dum begins flexing, showing off the muscles none of them can see under all the plasteel armor plating. Gabe flips Steve a lazy, two fingered salute. 

“This crazy bastard,” Gabe says, dropping his fingers from a salute to a gesture at Dum Dum, “killed the Archon.”

“Two men enter, one man leaves,” Dum Dum chants, clearly pleased with himself. 

Steve sighs, rolling his eyes fondly at his friends. “Well, good work team.”

* * *

“Look, it’s a pincer maneuver,” Dum Dum chuckles, whacking his crude dirt drawing of the old Lunar Complex with his knuckles. “I’m a goddamn genius.”

Steve makes a face at the interior of his helmet, but keeps his thoughts to himself. Three people isn’t really enough for a pincer maneuver, in Steve’s opinion, especially when it leaves one of them unable to resurrect should something go wrong. Besides, he doubts they need anyone at the Fallen’s rear ranks. The House of Devils would have to retreat back into the Terrestrial Complex and straight into the House of Kings’ stronghold. Better to take their chances with a couple of Guardians, honestly. 

“So which of us poor bastards is going alone?” Gabe asks flatly, arms folded over his bulky chestpiece. Steve nods in agreement.

“Please,” Dum Dum scoffs, “you think I didn’t plan for this?”

“Planning’s not usually your strong suit,” Steve points out. Gabe points at Steve with a firm nod and Dugan sighs heavily, pushing up from his crouch. 

“Slander,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I called in back up ages ago, you assholes.”

Gabe barely stifles a laugh, poorly masking it as a cough. “Who the hell would offer to help you out?”

“ _I_ wouldn’t even offer to help you out,” Steve adds, mockingly serious. 

Dum Dum claps a hand over his chest, stumbling forward a step. “Straight through the heart, boys.”

“We could arrange that,” Gabe shrugs, laughter curling through his voice. Steve perks up, recalling the bullet between the eyes he’d received when he’d busted his arm. 

“I’ll do the honors,” he announces, drawing a laugh out of Gabe. Dum Dum flips them both off, but the little tremor in his shoulders suggests he’s fighting back his own laughter. 

“Seriously though,” Gabe chuffs, quieting his laughter. “Who’d you sucker into this?”

“Well boys,” Dum Dum declares, puffing up proudly, “I called in our favorite cloak wearing sneak.”

Steve straightens up, lips curling. “Sar-”

“Peggy!” Gabe cries, cutting Steve off. 

“In the flesh, gentlemen,” she chuckles, dipping into a deep, flourishing bow. Steve shakes away his sudden bitter disappointment and joins his friends in their lively reunion.

* * *

“Shit,” Gabe hisses, skidding feet first behind a haphazard stack of crates. 

“You can say that again!” Dum Dum barks. Steve’s lost track of him; he’s not even showing up on radar. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, hopping onto the long neck of an ancient, rusted crane and sprinting through wire rifle fire. His mad run pulls attention away from Gabe, who ducks out around his cover with his sniper rifle at the ready. The Vandal sniper who’s been keeping them pinned is the first to go, and Steve grins, exiting to the skeletal remains of the long forgotten building the crane is parked next to. 

“Nice shooting, Gabe,” Steve says, dropping onto one knee behind a narrow, steel beam and aiming down the sight of his scout rifle. 

“Wasn’t me,” Gabe grunts, followed by the bang of what is clearly his sniper rifle firing. Steve’s about to call him on his bullshitting, because Dum Dum certainly hasn’t taken up sniping since their last fight, when a familiar voice chips in. 

“Sounded like you guys needed the help.”

Steve’s grin cracks across his face, stretching his cheeks until they burn. 

“Sarge,” Dum Dum crows. “You keep showing up like this and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you miss me!”

The Hunter snorts in reply, sending Dum Dum into a fit of hysterics. With the extra fire power mowing through the Fallen, Steve has a second to breathe. He finds the body of the Fallen sniper, making note of the direction its body had collapsed in and trying to extrapolate where the shot had come from. He squints at the most likely ledge, but he can’t spy Sarge anywhere. 

“Where are you hiding?” Steve asks, using half his focus to fire at a Captain hiding from Gabe behind an old forklift. His aim is off, and his bullets tear through the alien’s leg, dropping it to the ground. A sniper round passes through its skull and deep reddish purple blood erupts from the body. 

“Pay attention,” Sarge grumbles. The Ghost icon in the top left corner of his HUD flickers on, “SARGE” appearing next to it. A private conversation then. 

Steve lifts his rifle dutifully, but he can’t stop the curiosity churning in his head. “You’re across from me,” Steve mutters, “but I can’t figure out where.”

“More to the left,” Sarge admits after a moment, and Steve can’t stop himself from looking. He scans the area he’d been looking at before and is rewarded with a muzzle flash. For a blink, the end of Sarge’s rifle lights up red, before vanishing. Now that he knows where to look, he can see the tell tale shimmer of invisibility. 

“Are you cloaked?” Steve asks, surprised. “How are you cloaked?”

“Patience and Time,” Sarge replies, though there’s barely concealed humor to it. 

“What does that mean?” Steve frowns, picking off a couple Dregs urging a Shank drone out ahead of them. The Shank turns toward him, so he fires a round at it, too.

“Why don’t you focus?” 

“You’re the one who opened a private channel, pal,” Steve reminds him. All he gets for his trouble is heavy silence, so Steve settles in and focuses on cleaning up the last of the Fallen. Between the three of them, the aliens don’t stand much of a chance, so when Dum Dum eventually bursts back onto the scene, all white hot lightning and larger than life personality, it’s all over. 

Gabe and Dum Dum immediately start looting the area for anything worthwhile, but Steve and Sarge are still perched high above the battlefield. Steve settles on the edge, resting his gun across his lap and letting his feet dangle over the side. He watches as Sarge finally pushes up from his prone position, the shimmery invisibility flickering away. With fluid motions, Sarge stows his sniper rifle and drops his hands to his hips. Steve gets the distinct impression he’s being glared at. He smirks, raising a hand and waving obnoxiously. 

A sigh crackles through the private line. “Why do you care?” 

Steve blinks, smile dampening. “What do you mean?” he asks carefully. 

“We’re all dead, you know,” Sarge says conversationally. “We all died and rotted away and this is Hell. So why the fuck do you care?”

Steve licks his lips, considering his response. He’s almost certain this is a test and the wrong answer will send Sarge running for good. The very idea of it is impossible to stomach, for reasons Steve isn’t willing to delve into. 

“Even if we’re dead, we can still protect the living,” Steve starts, revving up for a rousing speech about guarding the weak from those who’d prey upon them, but Sarge cuts him off. 

“Not that,” he snorts. “You keep tabs on Dugan, you want to keep tabs on me. We’re already dead, so why do you care what we get up to?”

“You do the same thing,” Steve accuses, whip fast. “You keep running to my rescue like you’re prince charming and I’m a damsel in distress.”

The silence that follows his outburst is absolute and Steve bites his bottom lip. That was probably the wrong answer. There’s a short fizz before the private line shuts down, Dum Dum’s voice sudden and booming where the silence was. Steve watches the Hunter across the way slink into the shadows and wonders if he’ll be back.

* * *

Steve slams his fists into the ground and electricity explodes before him, cutting a swathe through the Fallen. Most crumple immediately, but the few still clinging to life stumble and stutter as the arc energy pulses. He pops back to his feet, reaching for the shotgun slung over his shoulder, but he’s not quick enough. Gunfire rings out and the Fallen drop, one perfect shot for each of the aliens still standing. 

“Thanks Peggy,” he says, picking his way through Fallen corpses. She mimes blowing smoke from the end of her hand cannon and holsters it with a confident, dramatic flourish. 

“I’m sure you could have handled that,” she says warmly, “but I simply couldn’t resist.”

Steve shrugs. “Hey, at least I know how to use arc now, right?”

“That you do,” Peggy purrs, reaching to brush her fingertips down Steve’s chest. Even through the thick material of her gloves and the heavy plate of Steve’s armor, the touch makes him blush. He laughs, a high, nervous sound and thanks his lucky stars his helmet hides the heat rushing to his face. 

Steve clears his throat to banish any pitchy warble from his voice. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here?”

“I needed to check in with my favorite boys,” she tells him, walking around him and springing into the air. She steps, left foot then right, as if there are floating stepping stones only she can see, and lands on a large shipping container lurching up out of the ground erratically. She takes a seat on the edge, folding her legs together elegantly and pats the spot beside her. 

“I should go check on Dum Dum and Gabe,” Steve hesitates, pointing with a thumb over his shoulder. 

“They’re fine,” Peggy waves him off. “I checked on them first.”

With a sigh, Steve gathers himself and charges forward. He leaps off the ground and his Light sends him rocketing through the sky. It drains before he makes it to the container, but momentum carries him the rest of the way easily. He slams down hard next to Peggy, making the metal groan under his weight. 

“Graceful,” Peggy teases as Steve drops down beside her. 

“That’s my middle name,” he agrees. 

“Well, Titans generally aren’t that maneuverable,” she assures him. “It’s not something you should worry about.”

Steve looks at her for a long moment. “What should I be worried about?”

Peggy taps a finger against the jaw of her helmet thoughtfully. “Have you put any time into using void yet?”

“No,” Steve says. “I imagine you think I should.”

“Yes,” Peggy agrees firmly.

“So what do you know?” Steve asks, turning fully to look at her. She sighs, shoulders heaving with the effort. 

“We built a wall around the City,” Peggy says quietly, “but the Titans are the only real thing standing between the Darkness and the last of Humanity.”

“Peg,” Steve urges gently, unsure of her true meaning. 

“We could never stop the Fallen head to head,” Peggy says seriously. “They are an army and we’re a strike force at best.”

“Peggy,” Steve says, commanding and firm. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“The Fallen are likely targeting the City,” she reports. “Saladin is planning to recall all the Titans. He wants you to hold the wall, no matter the cost.”

Steve digests this slowly, nodding. “If that’s what needs to be done.”

Peggy throws her hands up in defeat. “Titans! I don’t know why I bother worrying about any of you.”

“You love us,” Steve teases, gently bumping their shoulders together. 

“Unfortunately,” Peggy agrees. “That’s why you need to master void, and quickly.”

“How will it help?”

“Titans using void can create protective energy domes,” Peggy says, sketching out a rough arc with her hands. “It won’t stop the Fallen, but it can save lives.”

“Alright,” Steve nods. Peggy’s concern is obvious and Steve trusts her judgement. “I’ll start practicing right now.”

“Good man,” she says with bravado, patting him on the shoulder. “Get out there soldier.”

He laughs, snapping a sloppy salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Go on,” she snorts, shoving him. He goes along with it, sliding off the edge of the container and dropping to the ground heavily. His knees ache with the impact but he launches forward, heading for the last place he’d seen his fireteam. 

“Steve!” Peggy calls after him, and he pauses, pivoting on his heel to face her. “Be careful, would you?”

“For you?” he replies, “Absolutely.”

* * *

“Fuck me,” Dum Dum exclaims gleefully, “these bastards are tough.”

“They ate their Wheaties this morning,” Steve grunts, driving an arc-covered fist into a Vandal’s bloody side. 

“Wheaties?” Gabe asks, word narrow like he’s speaking from the side of his mouth. 

“I can hear you,” Steve says flatly.

“Don’t make fun of old man Steve-o,” Dum Dum admonishes jokingly. 

“What the hell?” Steve gripes. “You know movies from the 1980’s but you’ve never heard of Wheaties?”

“Alright Gramps, calm down,” Dum Dum says. 

“You’ll give yourself a heart attack,” Gabe tacks on. Steve rolls his eyes, dropping into a crouch and angling his shotgun up. The two Dregs before him collapse and Steve use the sudden calm around him to catch his breath. He draws his attention to his radar, taking note of the two green dots marking Dum Dum and Gabe and the handful of red spots milling around them. A blue dot flashes across the opposite side of his radar and Steve turns as if he’ll be able to see the person creating it. 

“There’s another Guardian in here,” Steve announces, curiosity piqued. His Ghost helpfully drops a marker on his HUD, a little mark of color leaping and bouncing wildly in front of his eyes. 

“Thanks for the update,” Gabe replies blandly. 

“I think they’re in trouble,” Steve mutters, watching the frantic movement of the marker. 

Dum Dum sighs explosively, filling their radio chatter with biting static. “Go if you’re going. Lord knows you won’t be dissuaded.”

“Nice word choice,” Gabe chimes in. “Air high five.”

All gunfire stops momentarily, and the two of them release quiet grunts of faked effort. Steve snorts. 

“You’ll be okay?”

“Steve,” Dum Dum says tragically, “I’m offended you have to ask.”

“Get out of here,” Gabe laughs. “No amount of Wheaties can save these assholes from us.” 

“Yessir,” Steve replies, trotting along the wall until he finds an open doorway. The hallway is dark, the opposite end lit pale blue with emergency lighting. Keeping an eye on the marker, Steve makes his way down the hall. He follows it around a corner, putting the dot on his right, and continues on. Eventually he finds a wall filled with blasted out windows overlooking a little snow filled courtyard. A small team of Fallen, led by a sword wielding Captain, has a decidedly familiar Hunter backed into a corner. 

As he watches, the Hunter calls on his arc blade, bathing the small yard in flickering blue-white light. He attacks ferociously, but the Captain takes five or six slashes before it drops to the ground, and the Hunter’s arc blade vanishes before he can reach any of the other Fallen. A scout rifle is in the Hunter’s hands before Steve can even blink, but the gun is difficult to aim in such close quarters. He fires a few wild shots, winging a Vandal but doing negligible damage. 

Steve climbs through a broken window and drops down, racing toward the scrambling scout. He charges into a Dreg shoulder first, its body crunching sickeningly, like a bug under a boot. The second of two Vandals takes a shotgun blast to the spine and crumples immediately. Sarge jams a short knife into the face of a Dreg, so Steve turns to the last Fallen and puts it down quickly. 

In the ensuing silence, the two Guardians awkwardly avoid looking at each other. Steve busies himself reloading his shotgun. After their less than stellar goodbye last time they’d seen each other, Steve isn’t sure exactly how to approach this. He wants so badly to tease Sarge for following them, yet again, but he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that doing so will only push him away. 

He watches Sarge out of the corner of his eye, scrubbing blood off his knife with the corner of his cloak. Finally Sarge cracks, slamming the knife back into the sheath at his waist and rounding on Steve aggressively. 

“I don’t need your help,” Sarge growls, chin raised and shoulders squared. 

Steve bristles immediately. “I never said you did,” he snarls, squeezing his shotgun until his knuckles ache with it. 

“Whatever,” Sarge grits out, clearly dismissive. He strides forward purposefully, but Steve refuses to let him off the hook so easily. He sidesteps into Sarge’s path, bringing him up short. Steve takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, trying to shake some of the anger free. He’s not even sure what exactly has him so riled. Sarge’s bad manners certainly shouldn’t get him this fired up this fast. 

“Don’t ‘whatever’ me,” Steve says tightly. He shoves at Sarge’s shoulder roughly and the Hunter surges forward in response, slamming their helmets together with the force of his charge. 

“Just leave me the fuck alone,” he hisses. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“I don’t think you want to be left alone,” Steve snaps back. He puts all his considerable weight and power into pushing forward, until Sarge has to take a step back. “I think if you really wanted to be left alone, you’d stop following us around like a lost puppy.”

Sarge drives a fist into Steve’s poorly protected waist, then plants both hands on Steve’s shoulders and pushes. They both stumble back, Steve favoring his smarting side. 

“Fuck you,” Sarge yells, chest heaving. “You don’t know anything about me.”

He storms forward, slamming their shoulders together as he passes Steve. 

“I worry about you, you know,” Steve says to his retreating back. Sarge stutters to a halt, stone still. “You’re always alone. You disappear for random stretches of time. No one ever knows if you’re alive or dead.”

Sarge half turns and Steve shrugs helplessly. 

“I just worry,” he says softly. 

Sarge shakes his head. “You really shouldn’t,” he mutters lowly, and then he’s through a shattered window and gone once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The image of the Bladedancer (the second image) is from Bungie.net. I couldn't get any good pictures of my own Hunter. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	6. A Titan’s Guide to the Worst That Could Happen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Deej, Bungie's community manager, who doesn't deserve what I've done to him here.
> 
> **Glossary**
> 
> _Guardian_ : A reanimated corpse-turned-specialized soldier tasked with the defense of the last city on Earth and exploration of the lost remnants of humanity's Golden Age throughout the solar system.  
>  _Titan_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on strength and power.  
>  _Hunter_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on speed and finesse.  
>  _Warlock_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on... "space magic."  
>  _Traveler_ : A mysterious, city-sized sphere hovering close to Earth's surface which grants superhuman abilities to Guardians.  
>  _Ghost_ : A levitating artificial intelligence used by Guardians.  
>  _HUD_ : "Heads Up Display"  
>  _Fireteam_ : A small squad composed of 2 to 6 Guardians.  
>  _Cosmodrome_ : A shipyard located in Old Russia that once served as a vital link to space.

"Are you afraid? Listen closely: so are they."  
—Description on the Hunter armor _Fear Eater_

* * *

Gabe is sitting practically on top of their little campfire, helmet on and Ghost hovering near his shoulder. Steve wonders if he’s going through his inventory or maybe reading reports. It’s still a bit disturbing to him that the Ghosts have total control over everything their Guardians see through their helmets, although it explains how they all manage to walk around with opaque visors without bumping into everything. It seems bizarre to give control of something as important as sight to anyone other than himself, and yet he trusts his Ghost so implicitly. Almost like it’s a part of him. 

“Hey,” Gabe says suddenly, pushing his helmet up so the opening of the neck is perched on top of his head. “You guys want to crash a party?”

“Someone’s having a party?” Dum Dum asks, disappointed. “And we weren’t invited?”

“Monty and the boys are heading for the Blast,” Gabe grins. 

“Well, well now,” Dum Dum smirks, tugging at his moustache. 

Steve smiles wolfishly. “The Blast is right next door,” he points out innocently, gesturing to the square hulking building standing a ways off behind them. “Just through the refinery.”

“What are we waiting for then?” Gabe chuckles, yanking his helmet on fully and pushing to his feet. Steve and Dum Dum are up and ready in a flash, Dum Dum taking a second to kick snow over their small fire. They take off running, leaping and shoving and stuffing each other into the solid walls of the refinery. Pockets of Dregs block the way occasionally, but the trio of Guardians blow through them with ease, filled with childlike excitement at the idea of surprising their friends. 

The refinery deposits them in a vast plain surrounded on all sides by massive warehouses. The plain dives into a smooth, deep dale with a squat, metal-sided shack perched on one ridge. 

“Looks like we got here first,” Gabe announces. It seems like an accurate assessment. The snow here is smooth and untouched, empty as far as the eye can see. 

“So we wait,” Steve shrugs. Dum Dum points to the shack. 

“Perfect vantage point,” he says, rushing forward. He leaps, going for distance rather than height, and lets his Light propel him forward. Steve and Gabe follow at a more leisurely pace, watching Dum Dum jump up onto the shack’s roof. He spins in the air, but doesn’t quite make it a full 360 degrees. Instead he lands awkwardly, body turned one way and momentum pushing him another. He stumbles, flails, and falls on his ass, howling with laughter immediately. 

They continue to fool around while they wait, throwing snowballs and trying to push each other off the roof. It’s so easy, simple roughhousing with no intent to intimidate or harm each other. Three guys playing in the snow like children. Steve wonders if this is what his childhood was supposed to feel like. 

Eventually, their mindless games turn into king of the hill, each of them trying to claim the rooftop as their domain. Dum Dum is far and away the best at holding his ground, so Steve and Gabe form a temporary alliance to shove him off. But as Dum Dum skids over the edge, he wraps a hand in the Mark hanging loose at Steve’s hip. Not one to be taken down without a fight, Steve scrabbles for a hold on Gabe’s armor, catching the raised edge of the plate along his thigh. All three of them crash into the ground in a breathless heap, hurling insults and cackling with laughter. 

“You know,” someone hollers over their commotion, “we should have guessed, given the noise.”

“Clearly we should not have left these children to their own devices so long,” comes a tart agreement. 

“Jim! Monty!” Dum Dum yelps, from the bottom of their Titan pile. With persistence and ample upper body strength, Dum Dum hefts himself and his two teammates along with him, although Steve and Gabe simply collapse into an even more awkward tangle at his feet. “And Jackie, of course,” Dum Dum booms merrily. 

Dernier mutters something in French that has Gabe in hysterics, fist smacking the snow. Steve, half under him and out of the loop, pats his back consolingly before climbing to his feet. The six of them greet each other familiarly, one armed hugs and cheerfully slapping each other’s helmets. 

“Alright,” Gabe says, after they’ve settled, “why the Blast?”

“It’s really creepy when you stalk me,” Morita says blandly. 

“Stop having your Ghost automatically tag your location then,” Gabe snarks. They stare each other down challengingly until Morita cracks and then they’re both laughing. 

“So,” Dum Dum says, throwing his arms wide to indicate the open field behind them, “why the Blast?”

“My Ghost picked up a message,” Dernier says, accented words sliding into each other. He sniffs. “The Fallen are planning to drop a Walker here.”

Dum Dum claps his hands together, turning to Steve and Gabe excitedly. “Well boys, looks like the party is gonna be bigger than we expected.”

“There’s no better way to greet the Fallen,” Falsworth adds piously, “than to blow up all their toys before they can use them.”

“Amen,” Gabe says emphatically. “Ya’ll don’t mind if we join ya, right?”

“The more the merrier,” Morita shrugs. “Any of you running void? It’d be nice to have a bubble if things get hot.”

“I am,” Steve offers, because he’s taking Peggy’s warning seriously. Using void energy makes him almost entirely defensive, versus the clear offensive capabilities of arc power, but he’ll learn it nonetheless. 

Dum Dum throws his arms around Steve’s shoulders proudly. “He’s growin’ up so fast,” Dum Dum sniffs, miming wiping a tear from his face. The effect is a little lacking, with the helmet on. 

The group of them laugh and jeer, teasing Steve, who takes the abuse good naturedly. They cross the field, taking refuge under a metal awning so any low flying Fallen ships won’t notice them. While they wait, the two teams catch up. Both teams have similar stories to tell, although it’s clear to Steve that the more they discuss the Fallen’s movements, the more troubled the experienced Guardians around him become. 

The Fallen’s arrival is heralded by an earsplitting boom and a towering, ant-like mech crashing into the ground with enough force to nearly knock Steve off his feet. Ground troops are released from dropships all around the Walker, as the mech slowly orients itself. An energy launcher on its back swings around once before unerringly finding the gathered Guardians. 

“Aim for the legs,” Dum Dum shouts, probably for Steve’s benefit, as everyone scatters. The Dregs and Vandals swarming around the Walker’s legs are a nuisance, distracting from the energy launcher and cluster bombs being thrown at them almost constantly. Steve takes refuge behind a bit of crumbling wall, popping up only to clear the adds or draw the Walker’s attention away from his friends. 

Despite the name, the Walker doesn’t actually move much. Aside from spinning in circles, it stays almost exactly where it was dropped. With the six of them spread around it, the machine can’t decide where to focus its fire, so there’s always someone with a clear shot at the weak joints of its legs. It doesn’t take that long, all things considered, for one of the machine’s legs to give out. It collapses to the ground, making a pathetic, mechanical whining sound. 

All the commotion must draw attention from other Titan teams nearby, because before long Steve can count a total of eight Titans besides himself attacking. Against their numbers, the Fallen are clearly having difficulty, and the Walker spends more time whining on the ground than it does on its feet. That doesn’t mean taking it down is easy. 

While the Walker struggles back to its feet, Falsworth rushes in to slam the machine with arc energy. It’s a bold move, and it backfires spectacularly. A Captain outside the range of Fists of Havoc swipes at him while he’s regaining his feet, and Falsworth is thrown clear across the plain, rolling through the snow like a rag doll. 

“Go drop a bubble on his Ghost to revive him,” Morita snaps, and Steve rushes to comply. 

Void energy is an entirely different beast than arc. Unlike the tingling anticipation of a lightning strike, void energy feels cold, quiet, detached. Steve appreciates it, in a way, for the cool, logical focus it grants him. He races over the snow, hyper aware of the enemy movement around him, and skids to a stop above Falsworth’s expanded Ghost. 

Fists of Havoc is a full body motion, allowing the arc energy to engulf his entire body so he can slam it into the ground with both hands. Ward of Dawn, the void equivalent, is almost entirely internal. Steve gathers the void within him, forming a perfect sphere in his chest. He snaps both arms out to the side, imagining pushing the edges of the sphere out to their limits. The void energy explodes outward, forming a thin wall of purple light in a dome above him. A bubble of safety on the battlefield, protected from projectiles. 

Within the bubble, Steve absently resurrects Falsworth, watching his friends destroy the Walker. The Fallen troops retreat hastily. 

“Ah, cock,” Falsworth grumbles as he plops into the snow beside Steve, completely unaffected by the beating he’d taken just minutes before. “A pity you didn’t leave me dead.”

“Why?” Steve boggles, gaping at him. Falsworth sighs heavily, nodding toward a Titan Steve doesn’t recognize waltzing toward them. 

“Now we have to deal with Deej.”

“Deej?” Steve asks, but his only response is Falsworth throwing himself into Steve’s arms. It’s a far more familiar hug then Steve would consider normal, with their armor clacking and scraping together at the chest and thighs. 

“You’re my only hope, Steve,” Falsworth hisses. “We haven’t been dating long, but we’re very serious. You adore me, I think you’re absolutely delightful.”

“What?” Steve yips, a strange, not entirely unpleasant swooping feeling cutting through his gut.

“Monty!” The new Titan, Deej, calls, waving a hand. “You ran out so fast last time, I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Falsworth pushes his shoulders back to look at Deej, pressing his stomach and hips more firmly against Steve. He gulps, definitely interested in this development and absolutely terrified to show it. Tentatively, he presses his palms against Falsworth’s waist. 

“Oh, Deej,” Falsworth says, voice so full of false sweetness it makes Steve cringe. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Right,” the other Titan mutters, looking between Falsworth and Steve. “Who’s this guy?” He asks, so earnest and polite, Steve almost feels bad for him. 

“This is Steve,” Falsworth says, looping an arm around the back of Steve’s neck and hauling him impossibly closer. “The love of my life.”

Steve can’t hear Deej’s response, mind filling with white noise. For Falsworth to just say it so simply has Steve’s stomach in knots. Even if a relationship like this would be tolerated in this strange future, surely… Surely it’s not supposed to be spoken of so easily. He tries to drag void’s cold focus back over his swirling thoughts, but his energy is still replenishing and he finds he can’t do it. Instead, he stares at the purple wall of Ward of Dawn, dimming and flickering as it begins to fade away. 

The void bubble has long faded when Falsworth steps away, clapping a hand against the side of Steve’s helmet affectionately. “Thanks,” he laughs, “you’re a lifesaver.”

Steve nods vaguely, surprised to see the rest of their friends gathered not far off. Unease curls through his belly, thick and unpleasant like oil. 

“Hey now,” Dum Dum barks, “don’t go getting handsy with my son.”

Steve would argue that he’s not Dum Dum’s son, even remotely, but he can’t make his throat unstick to do it. 

“What’d you do this time, Monty?” Gabe laughs, gesturing in the direction Deej and his team must have gone. 

“That man has got to be the worst lay I’ve ever had in my entire life,” Falsworth complains dramatically. “And he’s so persistent! How many times must I tell the man ‘no’ before he understands?”

The teasing Falsworth gets from his friends is loud and full of laughter, but there’s none of the disgust or anger Steve almost expects. His mind reels, flipping back through everything he’s seen since he woke up in this distant future. Perhaps there were hints, here and there, that gender was no longer an issue in relationships. 

He’s surprised when Morita sidles up beside him and drapes an arm over his shoulders. “Welcome to the future, kid,” he murmurs. “Don’t gotta be worried about that anymore.”

Steve startles. “You knew?”

“Caught you lookin’ a few times,” he shrugs. He gives Steve’s shoulders a brief, firm hug and steps away. “If you find someone who makes you happy, man, woman or anything around or between, you hold on to them. No one here’ll judge you for it.”

He heads back to the others without a second glance, leaving Steve standing shocked. 

“Right,” he whispers to himself. “Sure, okay.”

* * *

“Okay, Saint-14, Osiris, and Sai Mota,” Dum Dum lists gleefully. 

“Kiss Sai Mota. Definitely marry Saint-14. Throw Osiris off a cliff.”

“Really? You’d marry Saint-14?”

“Sure,” Gabe shrugs. “Everyone loves him. If nothing else, I’d be the envy of the City.”

Dum Dum laughs merrily, turning to walk backwards while he addresses Steve. “Steve-o! Eriana-3, Vell Tarlowe, or Gallida!”

Steve’s not really sure what the point of this stupid game is, but he’s willing enough to go along with it. He hums thoughtfully, playfully stroking the chin of his helmet and looking off into the distance. 

“Hm, kiss Eriana-3, marry--” His eyes catch movement in the distance and he zeroes in on-- “Sarge!”

“Well, if you want to marry Sarge,” Dum Dum gripes, “I won’t stop you, but he wasn’t an option.”

“No,” Steve huffs, pointing, “Sarge is here.”

“Shocking,” Gabe says flatly, swaying drunkenly toward Dum Dum and elbowing him. 

“My gentleman caller has arrived,” Dum Dum hollers, devolving into childish giggles. He swoons toward Gabe, who snickers and shoves at him. Steve hangs behind them, nerves tying his stomach in knots. It’s been at least a week since their brief but fiery argument, and Steve has no idea how to engage with him now. A part of him wants to apologize for the things he’d said, or maybe for the way he’d said them. He doesn’t think he was wrong, just harsh. 

Sarge clearly watches them as they draw close, arms folded over his chest and fingers tapping restlessly against his bicep. 

“Sarge,” Dum Dum greets him brightly. “What can we do for you?”

Sarge shuffles his feet, dropping his arms to brush at his pant legs before refolding them. Fidgety, Steve thinks. Maybe he’s not the only one who was bothered by their most recent meeting. 

“I need to borrow him,” Sarge grunts eventually, gesturing to Steve. Steve frowns, folding his own arms over his chest stubbornly. 

“He’s all yours,” Gabe says, stepping behind Steve and shoving him forward. 

“Have him home by 11,” Dum Dum adds cheekily. 

“Come on,” Sarge mumbles, sliding past Steve and heading out toward the coast. Steve stares after him, completely at a loss until Gabe puts gentle hands against his back. 

“Go on,” he encourages. “Sarge doesn’t ask for much.”

Steve had been too embarrassed to say anything about their little spat to his companions, so Gabe has no idea what he’s pushing Steve into. Still, Sarge had made the effort to track him down, so maybe Steve owes him some of his time. Heaving a sigh, he trudges along after the Hunter. They go in silence, following the easy slope of the land down to the water. Sarge hangs a left, and they walk along the beach a ways. 

It’s tough going. Steve’s big frame and heavy armor weigh him down, and he sinks deep into the wet sand with each step. He starts to lag behind, panting with the effort, but Sarge doesn’t slow his pace. His apparent disinterest in Steve’s well being has anger starting to unfurl in Steve’s gut. Were he overly concerned by Steve’s pace, Steve would be livid, but the disregard irks him just the same, brushing against some of the old insecurities he still harbors from his first life. He’s not the weak scrawny boy he’d once been, but it’s hard to forget the shape of an entire lifetime. 

Up ahead of him, on a rocky outcropping spearing into the water, Sarge has come to a stop. He’s just a silhouette against the sunlight, bulky from the cloak in a way that belies his grace and agility in a fight. Steve stubbornly controls his heavy breathing, unwilling to show any weakness, as he comes to stand just behind him. 

They stand in silence, not acknowledging each other, for several long moments. Steve turns his focus inward, trying to cool the banked heat of his temper. Whatever Sarge has planned here, be it a fight or an honest discussion, Steve knows being furious will only cause him problems. As he begins to calm, their surroundings start filtering into his awareness. The water stretches out endlessly, a stormy gray-blue sparkling in the sunlight. The sky is clear and an occasional breeze blows past, playing with the sash on Steve’s hip and sending a nearby spinmetal bush to chiming like little bells. It’s a lovely location, and Steve is struck with the urge to pull his helmet off to bask in the sunlight. 

Instead he turns expectantly to Sarge. “So?”

Sarge folds his arms over his chest, but doesn’t say anything. Steve bites the tip of his tongue before his anger can surge to life again. He thinks of using void, of the cool, detached logic of it, and tries to emulate it. He’s only marginally successful. 

“You didn’t drag me out here to look at the water,” Steve presses. Sarge’s fingers begin tapping restlessly at the little plasteel plate on his upper arm. Steve wonders at the motion. It’s a habit, of some sort, but whether it’s an action born of nerves, frustration, or boredom remains a mystery. When it becomes clear that Sarge isn’t ready to break his silence, Steve finally gives in to his earlier desire and pulls his helmet off.

It’s bitter cold outside his armor, but the sun is pleasantly warm. He takes a deep breath, tasting the dampness of the air just off the water. It feels cleansing, like these few seconds of exposure are enough to break up the hard, hot anger in his belly. He inhales deep again, letting it out slowly and allowing all the tension in his shoulders to drain as well. 

He turns to Sarge again, ready to wait him out, only to find him already watching Steve. The gold plating stretched across his helmet at eye level glints in the sunlight. Steve quirks an eyebrow at him questioningly, but keeps his mouth firmly shut. Two can play this game. 

Slowly, almost skittish, Sarge reaches up and pushes his hood back. As the cloth falls around his neck, he pauses, hands held over his head. He remains that way, deathly still, until Steve lifts his chin in challenge. That’s all it takes for Sarge to yank his helmet off and drop it by his side. 

He’s a brunet, with a little crinkle in his short hair that suggests waviness after a certain length. His eyes are pale, gray-blue like the water at Steve’s back, and set in deep, dark ringed sockets. He has a square jaw, bow lips, and a little cleft in his chin. He is painfully, breathtakingly handsome. He meets Steve’s eyes daringly, as if looking away would make him lose this odd game of chicken. 

“The sun feels nice,” Steve says, for lack of anything else, and allows himself to scan Sarge’s face once more before leaning into the warmth. He hears Sarge exhale, fast and hard, followed by the tap-tap-tap of his fingers against his armor. 

“I don’t,” Sarge mutters haltingly, “like being attached to people.”

Steve’s curiosity begs to know why, but the few times he’s pushed have ended abruptly and without answers. So he waits. “Okay.”

Sarge clears his throat, a sound as frustrated as it is nervous. “So you should leave me alone,” Sarge continues gruffly, as if this were the natural progression of his previous statement. 

“I’m not,” Steve starts hotly, biting down on the rest of it. Sarge is the one who’s sought him out consistently since their first meeting. Their last altercation was the only incident where Steve was the instigator. “Fine,” Steve says tightly. “I’ll leave you alone.” Sarge sighs, slow and heavy. Relief, if Steve had to guess. “But,” Steve continues, “you need to stop following me around.”

“I don’t follow you around,” Sarge grumbles. Steve steals a glance. He’s staring at his toes, brows pinched. 

“Sure you don’t,” Steve agrees amiably. “You just happen to be wherever I am when the Fallen show up.”

“I’m following the Fallen, not you,” he insists stubbornly. Steve rolls his eyes. 

“Must be lonely,” Steve says mockingly, “being afraid to like people.”

Sarge flinches like the words have hit him right in the face, and Steve immediately feels guilty. He’s not cruel, he’s never been cruel, but something about this entire fucking situation infuriates him. He bites down on his bottom lip, forcing his anger to recede again. 

“Sorry,” he says, as genuinely as he can. “That was unnecessarily mean. I can be an asshole sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Sarge repeats. It’s probably a joke, but there’s no humor to it at all. 

“Yeah,” Steve admits. “I have a bit of a temper.”

Sarge nods once but sinks into brooding silence. His lips are pursed. Steve sighs, defeated and remorseful. He flicks his wrist and his Ghost appears above his hand, giving him what Steve assumes is a judgemental frown. 

“Shut up,” Steve murmurs to his constant companion tiredly. “Give me my helmet.”

“Please,” his Ghost retorts, although it produces Steve’s helmet without delay. 

“Please,” Steve mollifies. He puts his helmet on and heads to the edge of the rock, already dreading the march back through the sand. 

“It is,” Sarge whispers, barely audible over the lapping water and lazy breeze. 

Steve freezes on the spot, waiting with bated breath for more. It doesn’t come. 

“What?”

“Lonely,” Sarge replies, squaring his jaw defiantly. Steve looks at him, at the fierce expression and the rebellion waiting in his shoulders, the fear in his curled fingers and the desperation in the brightness of his eyes. 

“You don’t have to be, you know?” Steve says softly. “We don’t have to be best friends. We don’t have to be friends at all.”

Sarge narrows his eyes warily. 

“Dum Dum and Gabe both like you,” Steve offers. At least, neither of them dislike him. “They wouldn’t mind if you stopped by to hang out with us once in awhile.”

Sarge scoffs harshly. “Just give it time. They’ll change their minds.”

Steve sighs. “Would it be so bad to have friends?”

“You have no idea,” Sarge snorts dismissively. “You should get going. They’ll be waiting for you.”

“Hey,” Steve says, waiting until Sarge looks up at him. Steve takes in his sad, tired eyes and the nervous tapping of his fingers. He thinks about Pardack pushing him to befriend Sarge from the very beginning, and the quiet admission of loneliness he’d just received. He squares his shoulders, determined. “Think about it. I promise I won’t ever push you for more than what you want to give.”

Sarge’s face crinkles, sour and flustered. “What the fuck? Jesus, knight in shining armor. Get the hell out of here.”

“I mean it,” Steve asserts. “You don’t have to be alone.”

Sarge waves a hand at him exasperatedly, but doesn’t comment. 

“Well,” Steve sighs, “I guess you know where to find me.”

* * *

“Alright, what about that musical? With the murderin’ ladies? That’s your time period, ain’t it?”

Steve shrugs uncertainly, looking to Gabe for help. Gabe lifts his eyebrows and raises his hands in surrender, grinning helplessly at Dum Dum’s persistence. 

“I don’t know,” Steve says reluctantly, wishing he knew at least one of the titles Dum Dum keeps tossing out, just to make it stop. 

“Aw, c’mon Steve-o,” Dum Dum whines. “I know we’re talking ancient history here, but you must’ve done something fun. It wasn’t all doom and gloom in the medieval times.”

Memories of his first life are more difficult to recall now, like every passing second here removes a second from the life he’d had then. His brows furrow as he strains to remember the happy days of his youth. It comes to him in bits and pieces. His mother, hard and fierce and stalwart. Their tiny home with thin walls and loud neighbors. He remembers being cold often and hungry most of the time and fighting for every breath he dared to take. 

The happy moments are tucked in between the larger spans of the past. His mother’s fond smile and the gentle touch of her chilly hands. A pencil _just_ sharp enough against an untouched page of his sketchbook. Biting into a fresh, crisp apple or slurping up a rare milkshake or the sharp, bubbly tang of a bottle of Coke. Meeting Arnie Roth on the streets of Brooklyn and finally having something like a friend of his own. 

“I listened to the radio,” he says eventually, “when I could.”

“Sad,” Gabe mutters, though whether it’s in reference to Steve’s past or Dum Dum quizzing his Ghost on early 20th century radio shows is anyone’s guess.

“Guardian,” Steve’s Ghost interrupts quietly, taking form in front of him. “I think there’s someone here to see you.” It dips forward and down, using the topmost point of its shell to gesture over Steve’s shoulder. In the dusky twilight, it’s hard to see anything, but on a gently sloping hill a couple hundred yards off, Steve can just make out a little blue circle of light. 

“Is that a Ghost?” Steve murmurs, receiving a nod of confirmation. 

“It’s very studiously ignoring all my attempts to communicate with it,” the AI adds, shell shuddering in a way reminiscent of a bird ruffling its feathers. 

“Ah,” Steve breathes, nodding agreeably. “Are you being bullied? Do I need to have a chat with it for you?”

“Would you?” it chirps, tipping toward Steve conspiratorially and offering its version of a smile. 

“What if that Ghost just doesn’t want to talk to you?” Steve teases. 

“What?” His Ghost squawks. “I’ll have you know we’ve had several lovely conversations while you were arguing with its Guardian.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve laughs, but he pushes to his feet with new purpose. Dum Dum looks up from grilling his Ghost with a question on his face and Steve jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

He trots off over the rolling hills of the Mothyards, his Ghost zipping along at his shoulder. As they get closer, he can see more of the Guardian in the dim glow of the Ghost’s blue light. He’s sitting on the ground, legs drawn up loosely, cigarette between his fingers, hands dangling limply between his knees. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Sarge grumbles once Steve comes within hearing range, “can’t you give a guy a fucking break?”

“That rhymed,” Steve’s Ghost whispers theatrically, and Steve grins wide. Sarge rolls his eyes, dragging a finger across his throat and pointing aggressively at Steve’s Ghost. The little AI shivers and huddles close to the curve of Steve’s jaw. 

“Guess you found me,” Steve says in reference to their last conversation several days ago. 

Sarge’s eyebrows rise in bemusement. “I was minding my own business. You’re the one who came looking.”

“Your Ghost hurt my Ghost’s feelings,” Steve says lightly, swallowing a laugh. “It wanted me to come over here and be intimidating.”

Sarge turns to his own Ghost, bobbing slowly up and down just off the side of his left shoulder. “I’m on to your game,” he growls, mockingly threatening. The Ghost’s shell flutters and twirls, but it doesn’t speak. Still, Sarge huffs a small laugh and pushes it away with a gentle palm. He lifts his cigarette to his mouth, sucking in a slow deep breath. Steve gulps. His lips are a perfect, delicate bow cast in lavender by the pale blue light of his Ghost. His fingers are long and blunt, his knuckles battered and bruised. He has surprisingly thin, knobby wrists. 

“What?” Sarge snaps and Steve jerks, meeting cold, pale eyes. It’s okay, he knows it’s okay to look now but he can’t stop himself from feeling that getting caught is disastrous. His momentary shock must not show on his face, because Sarge sighs explosively. “Look, I’m trying okay? Fuck off.”

It takes Steve a second to figure out what Sarge means, but once he does, he grins. He tosses a look over his shoulder, to where Gabe and Dum Dum’s little fire flickers orange through the dark. “You don’t have to stay for long,” Steve tells him encouragingly. “Just come sit for a minute. We won’t stop you when you want to leave.”

Sarge takes another big puff of his cigarette, then smothers it against the sturdy leather of his pants. He drops the end into a pouch on his belt and stands slowly, scooping up his helmet as he goes. A quick twitch of his hands has his hood up and over his helmet, though it snags, lying puckered. Without thinking, Steve steps forward and reaches up, pinching the material and shaking until it lies flat. 

He can practically feel Sarge staring at him so he steps back, both hands raised, and smiles sheepishly. “It was all caught up,” he explains. “It would have bothered me.”

Sarge snorts, reaching up to pat at his cloak as if Steve might have done something untoward to it. Steve grins, and though he wants to take Sarge by the arm and bodily drag him down to their makeshift camp, he forces himself to walk off alone. Though he wants to look over his shouldering and make sure the hushed whisper behind him is the Hunter, Steve keeps his eyes forward and hopes. 

“Steve-o,” Dum Dum greets him when he draws close, “where’d you--” He stops, squinting past Steve and suddenly a huge grin takes over his face. “Sarge! Nice of you to join us!”

The Hunter snorts from behind Steve’s right shoulder, but he plunks himself down in the dirt just within the reaches of the firelight. 

“Any news?” Gabe asks, leaning forward and watching the Hunter seriously. Sarge taps his fingers against the hard shin of his left boot quickly. 

“Nothing from within the Cosmodrome,” he says eventually. 

“What’s that mean?” Steve asks sharply. As a forward scout, Sarge probably has a much better idea of what’s to come than they do.

“Anything outside the Cosmodrome will be inside the Cosmodrome if we wait long enough,” Dum Dum adds pointedly. 

Sarge’s fingers slow their rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Fallen Ketches,” he says, voice hard. “I didn’t hear all the reports, but it sounds like a lot of them. They’re spread out,” he pauses, drawing a circle in the air with one finger, “around the City.”

Steve has never seen a Ketch, but even the small transport Skiffs the Fallen use are beyond a single Guardian’s ability to fight. The couple of times they’ve come across a Skiff during their patrolling, Gabe and Dum Dum had insisted they needed to take cover, to avoid the heavy forward cannons and nasty cluster bombs. Steve can only imagine what the much larger Ketches are capable of. 

“They’re coming for us, then,” Gabe says seriously. 

“Seems likely,” Sarge agrees darkly. 

“Well, I think we should all go pay ‘em a visit,” Dum Dum says cheerily, smiling like a shark. “Get ‘em while the getting’s good.”

“We can’t,” Steve says slowly, working it through in his head. “They’re already spread out, so we’d have to go after one Ketch at a time. That’d leave the City unprotected for the other Ketches.”

Sarge nods. “If we let them get close enough, the turrets on the Towers can take them down.”

“It’s a gamble,” Gabe grunts. “We have to hold the ground until the Ketches are downed or run off.”

Sarge huffs with a touch of humor. “That’s what Titans are for.”

“That’s why Peggy wanted to me to learn how to use void,” Steve says suddenly, struck with sudden insight. She must have known the Titans would need to make a stand, and the purple dome shields will give them a chance to hide if things get too hot. 

“Ah, the old girl was worried about you,” Dum Dum teases, pushing aside the heavy air draped over them with startling ease. 

“Everyone worries about Steve,” Gabe laughs, going along with the change in tempo willingly. “Have you seen the way he jumps?”

“Like a load of bricks,” Sarge snorts. 

“Oh sure,” Steve laughs, pushing the tension aside for later, “gang up on me. I can take it.”

Gabe laughs, maybe too brightly for the moment, but they’re all aware of what’s looming just beyond their vision. A little desperate laughter is forgivable here and now. 

“Steve,” Dum Dum says, seriously, “what about Asimov? Ring any bells?”

“Are we back to this?” Steve groans, a little theatrically. “No, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I hate to imagine the sad world you grew up in,” Dum Dum groans, earning a chuckle from Gabe. 

“Asimov didn’t get famous until the 1950’s or so,” Sarge says, turning to address Steve directly. “His most lasting contribution was the Three Rules of Robotics, but they don’t mean shit these days.”

“Look at this fucking nerd,” Dum Dum laughs, grinning widely. Sarge heaves a sigh, shaking his head. He pushes to his feet, pointing a stern finger at Steve. 

“Find better friends,” he says, sending Dum Dum into a fit of hysterics. Gabe scoots over to pat his back, laughing along with him.

“They kind of grow on you after a while,” Steve shrugs, an apology, though he’s not sorry. 

“Like warts,” Sarge says flatly. Steve laughs, but the humor of it all is dampened by Sarge sidling further into the darkness. 

“You leaving?” Steve asks. Sarge stares at him, and though Steve can’t see his face, he can imagine the sharp look, the almost betrayal. He holds up both hands in surrender. “Just asking.”

After a moment, Sarge visibly relaxes. “Yeah, I’ve got places to be.”

He melts into the darkness beyond the fire’s reach and Steve tries not to feel disappointed. 

“Baby come back,” Dum Dum crows into the night, laughter making his voice warble. “You can blame it all on me!”

“God, shut up,” Gabe groans, shoving Dum Dum roughly, but he’s grinning like a fool. The two of them start rough housing aggressively, laughing boisterously as they do, but Steve can’t maintain the facade as well. Soon enough they’ll be fighting for their lives, and for the lives of every human left in the universe. 

Let them come, he thinks. He’ll be damned if he lets anyone or anything get past him.

* * *

The rocks under his feet are layered with snow, sloping steadily downward. He’s perched precariously, clinging with just his fingertips to the jagged rock pushing him back. He wonders what will give first, his fingers or his feet. 

“C’mon Steve-o,” Dum Dum hollers from above, head popping out from a ledge maybe 15 feet up. “You don’t want to be the rotten egg.”

Steve grits his teeth. It’s asinine, but he really really doesn’t. 

“I’m coming,” he snaps, chomping on his bottom lip as he slides incrementally around the rock he’s holding. His armor screeches as it grinds against it, the thin Light shield surrounding him flaring up against the intrusion. When he finally creeps around to the wider side of the ledge, he heaves a weary sigh. He’s never much wanted to be a mountain climber. 

“Hey Steve! What’s the worst that could happen?” Gabe shouts from somewhere even farther up than Dum Dum. 

Steve rolls his eyes irritably. 

“The answer is ‘you die’, Steve-o!” Dum Dum chimes in, helpfully. 

“Ha, ha,” Steve grumbles sarcastically. “That joke never gets old, I swear.”

He looks off to the right, where the next protruding rock is waiting for him. With a deep, centering breath, Steve jumps, releasing a small, controlled burst of Light to propel him the entire distance. He lands well, much to his relief, stamping his footprints into the snow next to the ones Gabe and Dum Dum had left with their own passage. 

They continue like that for some time, Gabe forging ahead and Dum Dum trailing after him. Steve continues to lag behind, even though the idea of being last to the top makes him want to punch someone. Preferably Dum Dum. With an arc fist. He still hasn’t gotten him back for that bullet to the face.

Steve gets hung up on a corner, unable to decide between shimmying around on a narrow ledge or attempting to make the jump up along the rock curving out over his head. He’s trying to steady his nerves when Gabe interrupts. 

“Hey boys,” he crows, “guess who’s about to reach the top.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Dum Dum yells, followed by a series of grunts and idiotic laughter. Steve can imagine them wrestling for the last handhold, trying to yank each other off the mountain side to be the first. It brings a reluctant smile to his face, though he’d never admit it. 

Their scuffle ends with a particularly meaty “oof” from Dum Dum and laughter from Gabe. 

“You’re a real bastard, Jones,” Dum Dum jokes, panting for breath. Gabe is silent for far longer than it’d take him to think up a decent comeback, and Steve cranes his neck to peer at the summit with worry. “Gabe?” Dum Dum prompts, concern tinging his voice. 

“Shit,” Gabe whispers. Louder, he adds, “Y’all better get up here.”

The good humor evaporates, leaving nothing but anxiety and adrenalin. Steve scrambles up the rocks with abandon, all his fear of falling replaced with fear of Gabe’s mysterious discovery. Neither of his teammates speak as Steve bounds and scrambles over the rugged rocks. He slips and nearly tumbles off the edge, but it’s as if he’s being pulled by some unseen rope toward the peak for how little it slows him down. 

He hauls himself onto the flat with his friends, pushing through a heavy blanket of snow, and follows their gazes out into the distance. 

A swarm of ships mar the thin blue of the sky, the sharp spires of their bows angled just left of dead on. From this distance, they’re little more than small shadows with a hot orange glow at their sterns. They creep through the air as one unit, steady and ominous. 

“Those are Ketches,” Gabe says lowly, as if he might be overheard by the enemy so far away. “They’re too big to be Skiffs.”

“Got your sniper?” Dum Dum asks, holding a hand out beseechingly. Gabe plucks the gun from across his back and holds it out unhesitatingly. Steve watches Dum Dum closely as he peers down the scope. Despite all the heavy armor, Dum Dum’s body language is clear, his motions boisterous. His shoulders square, determination, but his back bows, weighed down by resignation. 

Steve swallows thickly. “Has anything like this ever happened before?”

“Since the wall’s been up?” Gabe clarifies, voice distant. “No. Before, maybe. Everything was a shit show back then.”

Dum Dum lowers the rifle, and hands it back to Gabe, who offers it next to Steve. He takes it uncertainly, slowly lifting it up to look through the scope. 

“You know Saladin?” Dum Dum asks. Steve grunts an affirmative, struggling to keep the sniper steady so he can get a decent look at the ships in the distance. “He was one of the first Guardians,” Dum Dum continues. “Iron Lords, they were called. Most of ‘em are dead now, but they fought tooth and nail to clear this area. They gave the rest of us the time to think about civilians and cities and walls.”

“They died?” Steve asks, yanking away from the rifle. He knows it’s possible, but death has become nothing but a short lived, minor inconvenience to him now. It’s hard to imagine Saladin, or anyone fighting with him, dying. 

“Yeah,” Dum Dum says, gruff. 

“You done with my rifle?” Gabe asks, not harshly, but prompting. 

“Oh,” Steve fumbles, raising the gun again. “Almost.”

The closest of the ships slides into his crosshair, and Steve sucks in a short breath. It’s endless, tip to tail requiring a wide sweep of the rifle’s nose. It most hold thousands of Fallen, and the sky behind it is nothing but dark shapes moving toward the City. Ketches, as far as the eye can see. Dread washes heavy and choking over him. There’s no way they can win this.

He knows they must try. 

“What do we do?” 

Gabe turns to him, carefully extricating the sniper rifle from his grasp. “We get there before them,” he says, steady and strong, “and do what we were made to do.”

Dum Dum cracks his knuckles menacingly. “We’re gonna show these motherfuckers what happens to anyone who tries to take what’s ours.”

“How?” Steve snaps, jabbing a finger at the ships off in the distance. “They must outnumber us by the thousands!”

“You’re a Guardian,” Dum Dum says. “A Titan. We’re protectors, saviors, kind hands and warm smiles when the people need us.”

Steve nods a little, uncertain. 

“But to them,” Dum Dum snarls, pointing toward the distance, focus trained on Steve, “we need to be monsters. Slaughter them without mercy. Make sure you’re the nightmare that wakes them up at night.”

The three of them stand in silence, tension ricocheting amongst them. 

“I’ve alerted the City,” Gabe’s ghost speaks up, interrupting the uncomfortable standoff. His words are clipped and precise. “We need to get back immediately.”

“Then we should get a move on,” Dum Dum says, hard edged. He gathers himself and takes a running leap, knees drawn up as he plummets down the side of the mountain. 

Gabe gives Steve’s shoulder a bracing clap before following. Steve tips his head back and gulps, forcing down the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. There’s no time for hurt feelings, and fear won’t help him stand up to the Fallen army. 

“Guardian,” his Ghost says hesitantly. “We should hurry.”

“I don’t know how we’re going to do this,” Steve whispers, voice shaking. 

“I picked you for a reason,” his Ghost replies. “I could feel it in your soul, Guardian. You were made to fight against the impossible, to withstand the worst. I know that no matter what happens down there, you will be magnificent.”

Steve huffs an unhappy laugh. “Magnificent, huh?”

“Of course!” His Ghost insists. “I’ll be there too, naturally, but I’ll keep my exploits to a minimum. Don’t want to steal your glory.”

A grin cracks across Steve’s mouth, against his better judgement. “Oh yeah, big shot? Think you can handle the Fallen by yourself?”

“Oh, most definitely,” his Ghost confirms with exaggerated confidence. Steve nods, unable to wipe the smile from his face. Gratitude fills him, warm and almost painfully sharp. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles. 

“I’m with you no matter what,” his Ghost says firmly. “Together, I think we can do anything.”

“Anything?” Steve muses. 

“Absolutely.”

Steve nods, shoring up his resolve. He takes up his gun and runs off the edge. His mark snaps against his hip, blowing in the wind. 

“Think we’ll survive this drop?” Steve asks, watching the ground come closer and closer as he hurtles through the air. 

“Maybe if you land on your head,” his Ghost laughs. “Should be hard enough to take the impact.”

Steve laughs, nodding. “Well, I’ll do my best, but…”

“But?” 

“But, really,” Steve says, quiet and filled with sudden, inexorable purpose, “what’s the worst that could happen?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we come to the end of Part 1. I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> I'll be posting a short one-shot from Bucky's POV sometime in the next couple weeks, and Part 2 of the main story will be posted as part of the Stucky Big Bang. See you then! :D


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